Organized Chaos and Old Shadows
by JustLike2Write
Summary: Chief Vick's life is on the line as an old case steps from the shadows. Can the team keep her safe, or is the assailant more than they can handle? Set sometime between season one and two.


Title: Organized Chaos and Old Shadows

Rating: T

Summary: Chief Vick's life is on the line as an old case steps from the shadows. Can the team keep her safe, or is the assailant more than they can handle?

Spoilers: Maybe season 1 (story takes place between seasons 1 and 2)

Key Characters: Buzz, Gus, Henry, Juliet, Karen, Lassiter and Shawn

Chapter 1

The department was quiet. A phone would ring on occasion. Officers gathered by the water cooler and chatted about their families, weekend plans, and baseball season. An occasional laugh would echo and Chief Karen Vick looked through her window overlooking the bull pen in time to see a wadded-up paper-ball fly and land with accuracy in the circular trash by her head detective's desk. High fives were awarded, and even the normally stoic and retentive Lassiter smiled had tossed a dollar onto the small pile of Buzz McNab's winnings.

Karen could not remember a quieter week. She had enjoyed getting home to her family at a decent hour and watching her officers, detectives, and even her part-time assistant move through the day without a frown.

It wouldn't last, and for that reason she didn't open her office door and demand they all return to work. She smiled and shook her head before returning to her pile of unopened mail from the week before. It was a collection of junk adds, solicitations, and letters from the concerned citizens of Santa Barbara. Even the mail had been slow. Most of it ended up in the recycle bin beneath her desk. She chuckled again when she heard a round of cheers.

Buzz continued his winning streak.

The young officer smiled as he watched his winnings grow. A few others shook their heads in defeat and challenged him again. Buzz, well over six feet with dark hair and a fair complexion towered over all except Lassiter who challenged him with an additional dollar and raised right eyebrow.

Karen shook her head. Lassiter had proven himself a good detective, but tended to trip over his ego. However, today, he joined the team in challenging the rookie. Lassiter stood next to the pillar near his desk, white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the first two buttons on his shirt unbuttoned. He looked relaxed.

Karen grabbed the large manila file and blindly, out of repetitive habit, slipped the letter opener through the crease fold at the top, while reading the latest obituaries on her computer monitor. The envelope was ripped and the opener replaced in the top drawer of her desk. She paused, frowning as she recognized a name from many years ago. _Emma Conner, former district attorney, died peacefully after a long battle with lung cancer._ She had worked with Emma on several cases right after Karen transitioned to detective. Emma had been driven, tenacious, and at times exasperating, but she knew how to win cases. Karen paused a moment before focusing on the letter again. She pulled the eight by ten photograph from the envelope.

At first she smiled, and looked at the image of her six-month-old daughter laughing while her father held her beneath her arms and blew onto her belly button. Karen reached back for the envelope and looked for a letter or note. Not finding one, she glanced at the return address which was also lacking. She stood abruptly, the image tightly clenched between her thumb and forefinger.

Time slowed as the beat of her heart increased. She could see the antics of her fellow officers beyond the glass barrier, but she could only hear the rush of blood pound in her ears.

Her baby girl.

Her husband.

Her family.

And somebody wanted her dead.

Juliet O'Hara chuckled as another wadded up paper ball failed to hits its mark in the trash. She brushed a few stray blonde hairs from her face and once again forced them behind her ear. She stood next to her partner who continued to lose to Buzz, but enjoyed the company of colleagues. She glanced toward Chief Vick's office. "Lassiter?" she said with a frown and pointed toward the glass windows of Vick's office.

Carlton Lassiter turned. "Get back to work—everyone," he said. She pushed his shirt sleeves down and pulled his charcoal suite jacket off the back of his chair. He buttoned his cuffs and sipped his jacket on. "Hope you enjoyed it while it lasted." He tightened his tie, took a deep breath, and walked toward the Chief's office.

O'Hara slipped back into the gray pumps she had kicked off for the impromptu paper toss. "Must be serious," she said. She followed Lassiter and dusted her skirt and peeked around her partner's shoulder.

"It's always serious."

Juliet rolled her eyes as Lassiter knocked on the door. He paused and then opened it enough to peer in. "Chief?"

Karen looked up from the image and then forcefully handed it to him as he entered. Juliet followed and closed the door behind her. "That's my family."

Lassiter raised his eyebrows and handed the image to O'Hara. "Cute," he said with a shrug.

Karen took a deep breath and reached for her purse, breaking the handle as she forced it from the bottom right drawer of her desk. "That picture is from my cell phone—how did someone pull a picture off my police issue cell?" She dug into the brown leather bag and when she couldn't find the phone right away she dumped the contents onto the wood desktop.

"Maybe your husband—" Juliet said, and looked carefully at the image.

"—No," Karen said, and grabbed the phone off her desk while ignoring the contents that continued to roll and fall to the floor. "I thought that," she said, grabbed her phone and flipped through the images while worrying her bottom lip. "Charles hates technology—he can't even text." She hit a few more buttons. "There!" She held the phone for Lassiter's confirmation.

"Chief, I—"

"—Someone hacked into my phone! There's no note, no return address and the date stamp is over a week old." She paused suddenly. "I have to get my daughter—I have to go." She reached for her keys and moved toward the door, but was stopped by Lassiter stepped to block her exit and grabbed her arm.

"We'll send a patrol to pick them up—we need you here right now." He looked toward Juliet, nodded and watched her exit the office. He removed his hand from Karen's arm. "This may just be a prank or someone who—"

"This is a threat," Karen said. She tossed her phone onto her desk and looked out the window. "Someone hacked into my phone." She put her hands on her hips and shook her head.

Lassiter sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. "How do you know this isn't one of Spencer's infantile techniques to get himself on a case?"

Karen sighed, "I put Mr. Spencer on a case last week." She looked at Lassiter, brows raised.

Lassiter frowned and shook his head. "Why wasn't I made of aware of that?"

"Because you're not the chief." She rubbed the right side of her face before moving away from the window and taking a seat at her desk. "I asked him to look into the Holms' suicide."

"Why?" Lassiter shook his head and ran his fingers through his salt and pepper hair. "That case was closed three months ago—it's a cut and dried suicide." He put his hands back on his hips, the flaps of his suit jacket flayed outward.

"I did it because he was driving me nuts—I know it's a closed case, but he's not convinced." She rested her elbows on the desk and glanced toward the tampons and lipstick that came to rest next to the pencil dispenser.

"So, you let him have his way!"

"The only way he gets paid is if he can prove it and he won't be able to prove anything—she jumped off a roof for Pete's sake—in front of witnesses." She rubbed her face and looked toward the bullpen again. The pictures of her family caught her attention and her stomach rolled. She grabbed her purse and started shoving its prior contents back inside.

"Still doesn't explain why you think—"

"Look at the date, detective." She grabbed her wallet, the small makeup bag and other items that had been dumped from her bag.

Lassiter picked up the image again and looked at the small print in bright yellow at the bottom right corner of the image. He clenched his jaw and looked up as Juliet reentered the office.

"McNab and Tresky are picking up your family now. They'll call once they're in custody and bring them here." Juliet closed the office door.

Lassiter looked toward Karen. "We need to get you all into protective custody." He moved toward the window and closed the blinds. He looked toward the bullpen and turned toward his partner. "Look at the date." He handed the image toward her.

"I know," Juliet said. "There's a safe house north of town—it's out of the way, but it would be a good place for you—"

"She's right." Lassiter cocked an eyebrow and nodded.

"No," Karen stood and placed her palms on her desk. "I need to be here—I need to know who sent that."

"Chief—"

"I said no," she looked at Lassiter, while Juliet placed the image, the manila envelope as well as the phone into evidence bags. "O'Hara—"

"Yes, chief."

"—good catch on the date."

Juliet nodded and left the room to have the items tested.

Lassiter ran his thumb over the bright yellow words that stood out against the soft undertones of Charlie's shirt. "If 'you're next'," he looked at Karen, "who did he hit first?"

Karen ran her hand over her face and looked at the image. "Call Spencer—"

"Chief, I think—"

"Call him," she clenched her jaw and caught her breath in her throat, "if you call, he'll know how serious this is. I want every resource we have available on this case—this is my family."

Lassiter nodded, turned, and grabbed the door handle before he turned back toward her. "Stay away from the window."

"It's bullet proof."

"He hacked into a police issue cell phone, chief, unless I'm wrong, but I didn't think that technology was available yet."

Karen nodded and looked up in time to see her husband carrying her daughter walk toward her office. She stood and Lassiter moved a step back as the family embraced next to Karen's desk. He moved around the family and gently closed the door.

"Get back to work!" he said. He eyed those who tried to capture a glimpse of the chief through the glass windows leading to her office. Lassiter looked at O'Hara and took a deep breath. He pulled his phone from his pocket, pinched the bridge of his nose, and then punched some numbers.

"She's tough... I'd be a mess if it were my family?" Juliet said, and then glanced from Lassiter and back to the chief.

Lassiter placed the phone to his ear. "She's a mess." He listened to the ring and then winced when he heard Spencer's voice. "Listen," he said, and watched the activity around him. Both those he looked up to and those he respected because of their chosen line of work: those that would put their lives on the line when asked. "Get down here now - the chief needs your..." he cringed, "expertise. If you're not here in 10 minutes you 'll never work in this department again." He looked toward Juliet and hung up his phone.

Juliet frowned. "Wasn't that a bit harsh?"

Lassiter placed his hands on his hips and looked toward Karen who held her daughter. "If something happens to her," he looked back at Juliet, "we're going to lose a lot more than just our chief." He ran a hand over his face, looked toward the top of his desk, and took a deep breath.

"Alright!" Lassiter said, looking around the station. "I need every able-bodied officer in the conference room in 20 minutes. Buzz," he looked toward McNab who stood beside the front desk. "Get the room ready and post two officers at the front counter from here on out until the chief or I say otherwise."

"Yes, sir."

Shawn looked toward the Plexiglas window analyzing the images, documents, and diagrams he had drawn while trying to understand the progress of suicide. He scratched his head and then planted his hands on the waistband of his jeans. The buttoned skirts of his light blue shirt hung behind his wrists and his gray tee-shirt bunched at his waist, half tucked and half not.

"This is stupid, Shawn," Gus said, scrolling through Google news. He pushed his computer back and then leaned back in his chair. He rested his elbow on the armrest and rested his hands in his lap. His bright green shirt contrast with his dark completion. "She committed suicide, there's no way to prove otherwise—just look at the files—"

"I've been looking at the files," Shawn said. He moved back toward his desk. He sat in his chair and kicked his feet onto the corner. "Why would a 42-year-old woman - established in an accounting firm - kill herself two days after her boyfriend proposed—she said yes, by the way." He leaned back against the chair's headrest. "This would have been her first marriage—three years, mind you, before her expiration date—"

"I'll have you know, _Shawn_ , more women are choosing to get married later in life because of their independence—and more are forgoing the idea of marriage all together." Gus had pulled his computer back and was once again surfing the web.

"Dude, I'm saying that a woman of her age getting married so late in life is just…"

"She wasn't that much older than we are—"

"What? Gus, that's like 100 in dog years."

"Are you comparing her to a dog, Shawn?"

"No! I'm just saying there is no way she would go that long without _true love_ and then just up and kill herself." He moved his feet off the desk and looked again at the wall. "It just doesn't make sense."

"Suicide doesn't make sense."

"It wasn't suicide," Shawn said, and again ran his hands over his face. He grabbed a piece of paper off his desk, rolled it into a tight ball and threw it at the small hoop above the circular trash bin. "She was murdered… I just don't know how to prove it." He winced when the makeshift ball hit the rim and bounced toward the wall.

Shawn's cell rang and he reached to the right of his computer, leaned back in his seat and smiled. "Lassie, how's it hanging?" He paused a moment, frowned and then looked toward Gus who was peeking over his computer. "We'll be there." He hung up and stood. "Chief needs us." He shrugged.

"So why did Lassiter call?"

"Guess it's serious." Shawn walked toward the front door, and listened as Gus' keys clanged together as his chair was pushed back when he stood. "Come on, Gus, Timmy's in the well again and Lassie's going to have a," he paused, "cronary… cornary… cornanary." He pressed his lips together and fell forward after Gus pushed his shoulder.

"It's coronary—and if you keep eating at del Taco you'll be well acquainted with it by the time you're 40."

 **Chapter 2**

The station was ablaze with activity. Two officers stood at the front counter and another monitored the video cameras overlooking the parking lot and the front entrance. A fourth officer was stationed in his patrol car, watching the activity across the street. The window blinds had been closed and a surveillance crew swept the chief's office.

Shawn and Gus walked toward the open conference room where Lassiter, Juliet and the chief had gathered. Henry was there, dressed in his fishing clothes: a brightly colored print shirt, cargo shorts, slip on deck shoes, and his usual frown. He sat at the long table, leaned back in his seat with his arm resting casually over the armrest. Two large archiving boxes had been placed across from him, both remained unopened.

Shawn placated a smile and raised his arms.

Lassiter turned just as Shawn was about to speak. "It's about damn time," he said, and placed a hand on his hip as he pushed his jacket skirt back and exposed his holster. "What the hell, Spencer, you take a détour?"

Shawn lowered his arms and puckered his lips before grabbing Gus' wrist to look at his watch. "Eight minutes… it took us eight minutes to get here," he said in defense, while releasing Gus' arm. They both entered the room, Gus a step behind.

"Mr. Spencer," Karen said, as she crossed her arms over her chest. She looked tired. Her normally product stealth blonde hair was flattened, her eyes were red, and her composure continued to crumble. "I've asked you here to help with a case… my case."

Shawn raised his left eyebrow and chuckled. "Your case?" He looked from Gus to his dad and then back toward the chief.

Lassiter grabbed the plastic evidence bags and slid it across the table toward Shawn who picked it up and looked carefully at the image, as well as the cell phone.

"Chief, is that Annabelle? She's getting so big." Shawn handed the image to Gus who cooed.

"Shawn!" Henry snapped, and rolled his eyes. "Look at the picture."

"I saw it," Shawn said, "she's just so cute." He shrugged and slipped his hands into his pockets.

"That image was taken from my cell phone within the past three weeks. I've asked Detectives Lassiter and O'Hara to start reviewing some of my old cases, Detective Schultz is reviewing video footage of the parking lot and entrance for the past two weeks trying to locate the individual who dropped the envelope off as well as anyone who may have had an opportunity to get access to my phone."

"Chief," Gus said, as he moved

his chair forward to peek around Shawn. "Physical access to a phone isn't necessary. Someone could have easily hacked into it from a remote server. You don't even have to be wired for someone to gain access. Experts suggest that purchasing virus protection for your phone is essential."

"Seriously!" Shawn said, and looked toward him.

"A lot of people do banking on their phones, Shawn, they pay their bills, access their credit cards—it's just a matter of time before—"

"Mr. Guster," Karen said, and then took a deep breath. "I've asked you here to let me or Detective Lassiter or O'Hara know if you…" she paused and closed her eyes for a moment, "get any—"

"Divined visions," Shawn said with a smile.

Henry rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest.

Lassiter sighed and looked toward the ceiling, visibly counting to ten. "Whatever it is you do, Spencer," he said, looking toward him. "We all need to do whatever it takes to make sure the threat on that image doesn't become real. Understood?"

"Wait," Shawn said, closing his eye as he brought his fingers to rest against his temples. "No," he paused, "nothing."

"Shawn!" Henry slammed the palm of his left hand on the surface of the conference table, and caused everyone to jump. "That's enough—this is serious." He stood, pushed his chair back and walked to the other side of the table and removed the lid from the top of the first box.

"Henry," Karen said, looking toward Shawn.

Henry turned to look at her. "You should be in hiding with your husband and daughter," he said, and removed the first case file. He flipped through the pages, caught glimpses of images and notations.

"Why are you even here?" Shawn asked, and ignored Gus' attempt to hide behind him.

"Why any of you are here is beyond me," Lassiter said, and pulled the file from Henry's grasp and then replaced the lid on the box. "A clueless _psychic_ who doesn't understand - or appreciate - the severity of the situation and his father who retired before cell phones were a required part of the uniform—"

"Hey!" Henry said.

"This is out of line—" Lassiter moved toward Shawn.

"Everybody shut up!" Karen yelled, throwing her hands. "I've asked Henry here because he understands better than anyone in this room how to handle threats against the police—there was a time not so long ago when we were looked at as the enemy." She looked at Lassiter and O'Hara, her arms crossed over her chest. "This situation is about me and my family—not about you moving up through the ranks or you—" she pointed toward Shawn, "proving yourself, or you—" she turned toward Henry, "making your points! This is about me and I've asked you _all_ here because," she paused a moment, closed her eyes and collected herself, "because I trust you." She looked toward Shawn, Lassiter and then Henry who all nodded in understanding.

"I'm sorry, chief," Shawn said. He chewed his bottom lip, shrugged his shoulders and looked from Karen toward his dad.

"You can quit hiding, Mr. Guster," Karen said, and forced a smile. "I need all of you to work together—I don't care what it takes." She walked toward the door. "I need some air."

"Not alone and not without protection," Henry said, and made a move to follow.

Karen turned toward him and nodded. "I'll be in my office—away from the window." She looked toward Lassiter who had moved to speak, but stopped when she acknowledged his concern. She left, closing the door behind her.

Once Karen was out of sight, Henry looked toward Shawn and Gus. "What in the hell are you doing?"

"Can we not do this here?" Shawn said. He avoided eye contact with his dad and took a seat beside Gus who had removed the chief's phone from the plastic evidence bag.

"Look," Juliet cleared her throat and looked around the table, "I think we all have the same goal here—to protect Chief Vick and her family."

"Wait!" Gus said, jumping in his seat. With both elbows on the table he continued to punch the small buttons on the phone. "The chief has a four-minute voicemail—it came in today—just a few hours ago." He looked toward Juliet.

"If there was anything unusual about that phone, forensics would have found it." Lassiter sighed and tossed his notepad onto the table.

"I may not be an expert on technology, but I am a geek, and know my way around gadgets pretty well." Gus hit the play button and placed the phone on the table's surface.

"This could be a personal message," Juliet said, then crossed her arms across her chest.

Gus signed when nothing happened and he picked up the phone again.

"So much for the gadget geek." Lassiter grabbed a box lid and placed it on the chair next to him before he started to scan the names and dates on the files.

"The message requires a password," Gus said with a frown.

Shawn looked over Gus' shoulder to view the screen.

"I'll get the chief." Juliet left the room.

Lassiter and Henry both moved to stand behind Gus who continued to analyze the phone. Shawn reached for it, but received a slap on the hand for his effort.

"No way, Shawn," Gus said. He moved his hands toward his right, the phone held tight. "You still can't program the microwave."

"The complexity of the microwave is much more in-depth than an iPhone, Gus, an iPhone can't cook you from the inside out. "Did you not see Microwave Massacre?"

Lassiter rolled his eyes: "Holy crap, Spencer, that was the worse horror movie ever filmed—"

"—Based on fact, I will have you know—"

"Shawn!" Henry snapped, jaw clenched, hands fisted, eyes glaring.

Shawn pursed his lips and leaned back in his seat.

The door to the conference room opened and Karen walked in. She stepped behind Gus and placed her hands on her hips. "What's this about a passcode and a four-minute message?"

Gus looked up and handed her the phone. "In order to hear the message, you need to enter a password."

Karen took the phone. "I've never had to do that in the past." She punched in the numbers of her phone's passcode and frowned. "It reads: try again."

"Try the date that was on the original picture," Juliet said. She stood next to Lassiter who continued to peek over the chief's shoulder.

Karen tried the date and again the screen read: try again. She shrugged her shoulders and handed the phone to Lassiter. "It could be any number of codes—I'll have IT take a look and see if they can come up with somethi—"

"Wait," Shawn said. He stood walked to the other side of the room next to the boxes of files, pressed his fingers to his temple and closed his eyes.

"Mr. Spencer, the likelihood of knowing what that four numbers could be is highly improbable." Karen crossed her arms over her chest as she waited.

"Give me a minute," Shawn said. His eyes could be seen moving franticly behind closed lids and his lips moved every so subtly. "Four." He frowned and clenched his jaw. "Nine… nine… one." He looked up and met Karen's eyes.

She raised her eyebrows and cocked her head slightly to the left. "How did you know that number?"

Shawn smiled: "Psychic." He raised his eyebrows and walked back toward the group as Lassiter entered the numbers onto the phone's touchpad.

The screen flashed black and then white before the multimedia message appeared. A man's voice echoed, his accent heavy and English broken. While the voice spoke, images from Karen's phone randomly flashed, causing her to take a seat next to Gus in the chair Shawn had vacated and cover her mouth with her left hand. Henry moved to stand beside her, a hand on her shoulder for support.

Even Shawn stood stunned, as he listened to the words of a poem that embraced the loss of a child. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the tension in his shoulders and looked toward the chief who had suddenly become the victim in an assassination plot. The world was smaller now, not as large, and not nearly as freeing as it had once been.

When the message ended, it ended with a bang. The verbal threat to watch her back and the image of crosshairs had been superimposed on a picture of her and her daughter taken near the beach. The center of the crosshairs placed directly on her face.

Henry ran a hand over his face, and he scratched at his stubbled jaw before lowering his hand back to his side. "You shouldn't be here—you need to be in protective custody with your family, Karen." He placed his hands on his hips and stood with his back to the door, blocking onlookers from peeking inside the conference room.

Gus replaced the phone into the evidence bag and carefully zipped it shut. Resting his elbows on the table he rubbed his face and looked toward Shawn who stared blankly toward the window that overlooked the small yard.

"Dad's right," Shawn said, and pulled his gaze from the small carved statue of an officer kneeling. The monument had been dedicated to those who had lost their lives in the line of duty. It was surrounded by rose bushes getting ready to bloom.

"I agree with Henry," Lassiter said. He flexed and relaxed his jaw muscles in three-second intervals.

"If he knows I'm in hiding he may change his tactics," Karen said, and then lowered her hand from her face she leaned back in her seat and looked toward Shawn. "Given the severity of the situation… the police department can't risk the hiring of a civilian on a case such as this."

Shawn frowned and shook his head. "Wait a minute." He stepped forward and paused when Karen raised her hand to stop him.

"The police department can't hire you—but I can on a personal basis." She stood and looked at Henry then to Lassiter and Juliet.

"Chief, involving a civilian—"

"Detective Lassiter," Karen clenched her jaw and placed fisted hands on her hips, "everyone in this room is the best this department has, including Mr. Spencer and Mr. Guster—for whatever reason, he has been able to solve crimes the rest of you couldn't and he's discovered evidence that even you have missed." She moved her arms across her chest. "Whether he's just noticed it out of luck—"

"Hey—"

"or he's found it divinely—I don't care." Karen looked at Juliet. "Whatever our psychic duo needs, give them access." She turned back toward Shawn. "You have three hours before the FBI walks in here and tosses you out. Use your time wisely." She moved toward the door, but paused when she couldn't move past Henry's imposing form.

"You're putting yourself at risk, Karen, and for what?" He placed his hand on the door so she couldn't open it.

"Let me by." She looked up at him and clenched her jaw.

Henry sighed and shook his head. "Right now, you're thinking like a victim—not a cop—and if you think for one minute you're going to protect your family by holding up here," he paused with his brow furrowed and nostrils flared, "you're wrong."

Karen paused, looked past his shoulder and toward the bullpen. She could already see the nervous glances toward her. Her officers may not have known the details, but they could easily detect the stress of the situation.

"Whoever is doing this will use your family to draw you out—you know that, Karen." Henry's face softened as he took a deep breath.

"If it was your family," she looked toward Shawn and then back to Henry, "what would you do?" She watched his eye movement.

He looked toward the floor, the trash can next to the door, and finally back to her, purposely avoiding Shawn.

"What would you do, Henry?"

Henry took a deep breath and stepped away from the door. "I'd let the cops do their jobs."

"Like hell you would." She looked toward Lassiter. "I want a stack of potentials on my desk in 30 minutes." Looking toward Shawn she said, "You have three hours, Mr. Spencer." She opened the door and motioned toward her office before turning back toward Henry. "Whatever help you can provide, Henry, I would greatly appreciate it." She left the room, and closed the door behind her.

"I don't believe involving any of you on this case is the appropriate thing to do," Lassiter reached for a stack of files and handed them to Shawn, and paused momentarily, his grip so tight the tips of his fingers turned white, "but I do believe Chief Vick's safety for her family deserves the upmost respect and decorum from all of us involved."

Shawn caught Lassiter's eyes and smiled. "Respect, sure, but what are we decorating?" He tugged on the files.

Lassiter closed his eyes and visibly counted to ten before releasing them.

"Decorum, Shawn," Gus said, "not decor—and it means to be polite and professional." He sighed and rolled his eyes as he also took a stack of files.

"Why didn't you just say that," Shawn said, and tossed his pile onto the tabletop.

"I did," Lassiter said, and then handed another stack to Juliet and then to Henry. "Alright people, let's find this asshole."

 **Chapter 3**

"I'm telling you, Lassie, that's not the guy," Shawn said. He shoved the file back toward Lassiter who pressed his lips together, his jaw clamped tight, and he fought to breathe.

"Carlton is right, Shawn," Juliet said. She took the file and opened it. She stood next to her partner and flipped through the extensive pile of papers. "Geoff Wallenski was arrested seven years ago for identity theft. He made several threats to police—including the chief, who was the lead detective on the case.

"Walenski was 16 when he moved here with his family from Germany which would explain the heavy German accent on the chief's phone. He is also a self-proclaimed computer geek who is currently working for a local cell phone company." She lowered the file and flipped the pages closed. "You have to admit he looks like a strong suspect—the man's been out of prison now for…" she paused a moment and pulled at the memory, "five years—long enough to plan an elaborate assassination."

"It's not him—"

"How do you know, Shawn?" Henry said, and tossed another file aside. "What was in that file that has you convinced it's not him? Or what are your _psychic senses_ telling you?"

"It's too easy," Shawn said. He ran his fingers through his hair and scratched the back of his head. He then grabbed the back of his neck with both hands and looked toward Lassiter and Juliet. "Whoever stole that picture off the chief's phone and created the creepy poem based montage has to have either had their hands on it or created it using technology the SBPD hasn't seen yet—" He shrugged and placed his hands on his hips.

"Who'd the chief take her phone to when the charger jack was broken?" Lassiter said. He pointed his fingers toward Juliet who frowned.

"That was months ago—"

"I'll bet you a million bucks Mr. Wallenski had his hands on that phone." Lassiter grabbed the file from Juliet. A smile appeared on his face. "I think we've got our first suspect."

"No—wait!" Shawn threw his hands in the air and then rubbed his face in frustration as Juliet and Lassiter headed toward the chief's office. "Damn it!"

Henry looked at his son. "The file is solid, Shawn."

"That's the point." Shawn walked back toward the box with a handful of remaining files. "Whoever hacked into her phone knows her or has studied her enough to know what would set her off." He continued to look at names on the tabs while moving his fingers back and forth as papers fell forward. "There are three pictures in that montage that aren't on her phone—including one of a basket of flowers in front of a cell phone repair store that just happens to be located on 5th and Grand."

Gus reached for the pone and immediately started looking again for the multimedia message.

"5th and Grand is where Wallenski works." Henry sighed and leaned back against his chair. "That why you didn't say anything?"

"Dad," Shawn looked toward his father, "it's the wrong lead—and someone has either seen Vick's files or has followed her for a hell of a long time."

"I'm not disagreeing with you." Henry leaned forward as Gus started to replay the message.

"It didn't prompt for a password this time," Gus said, as he pushed the pause button. He glanced from Shawn to Henry.

Shawn looked toward Gus and was about to speak when his father spoke first.

"They needed to know when the message was accessed." Henry looked toward Gus for confirmation.

Gus shrugged: "If that is the case he could be connected now, and," he paused, frowning as he looked toward the phone, "what significance would the video be if he could hear and see everything she was doing?"

Henry shook his head. "If there was a way to do that, the IT officers here would know about."

Shawn flipped threw another file and paused, catching a glimpse of the name of his suicide victim. He looked up in time to see two men enter the bullpen, both wore calf length dark coats, one in blue and the other in charcoal gray. They showed their badges to Officer McNab who quickly escorted them to Chief Vick's office.

Shawn lowered his voice and spoke with an English accent, "Here come the fuzz."

"Timothy Dalton called and wants his line back." Henry turned in time to see the agents enter the chief's office.

"Dad," Shawn placed his hand on his chest and feign a swoon, "I'm so proud."

Henry rolled his eyes.

"Are you going to watch this?" Gus looked toward Shawn with his eyebrows raised.

"Seen it. I'm not the one who missed it the first time." He continued to read through the file, and memorized names, numbers, addresses and images.

Gus shrugged and hit play. He heard Henry's chair squeak as he moved to watch from behind Gus's shoulder.

Shawn took a seat next to the pile of files Juliet had worked on and continued to read. He didn't look up until he heard Gus call his name.

"What pictures, Shawn?" Gus asked, looking at him he held the phone up. "I didn't see it."

"I didn't either," Henry admitted.

Shawn looked past them and toward Lassiter, who walked with too much cheer in his step. The agent with the blue coat followed. The man glanced through the file as they walked toward the conference room. "Apparently Lassiter did." Shawn took a deep breath and leaned against the back of his seat.

Lassiter opened the door. "Agent Borrows, this is Mr. Henry Spencer, he's retired SBPD who has been brought in to consult on this case. Mr. Burton Guster and Mr. Shawn Spencer together own the psychic detective agency we were telling you about. Gentlemen," he smiled like a cat that just caught a mouse, and looked toward Shawn, "this is Special Agent in Charge, William Borrows with the FBI."

William shook Henry's, Gus' and then reached for Shawn's hand to shake. "I understand, Mr. Spencer, that you've assisted in solving several cases?"

Shawn matched Borrow's grip, released and again leaned back against his chair. "15 to be exact."

William smiled tightly, clenched his jaw and looked toward the files that had been spread across the table. "I don't believe in psychics." He returned his gaze toward Shawn. "Those who claim to be are frauds that are either hyper observant with an uncanny gift of gab, master manipulators or just plain lucky… I'm going to assume you're the latter of the three."

Shawn pressed his lips together and avoided eye contact with everyone but Borrows.

"This case is officially under the jurisdiction of the FBI and I need you and your partner to leave the premises or I will have you arrested for obstruction of justice and impeding a federal investigation. I have three more years until I retire, Mr. Spencer, and I have no desire to see my hard work blemished by the likes of you or a compromised police department." Borrows tossed the file Lassiter had given him onto the table.

Lassiter frowned with his mouth agape. "That file best fits—"

"I know what it fits, detective, and it will be investigated by Agent Tompkins and myself. You and your partner are ordered to stay here and continue the investigation from the comfort of your desk." He turned toward the door and nodded. "Gentlemen."

Lassiter watched him leave. "What the—"

"I think it would be best, Shawn, if you and Gus got outta Dodge," Henry said, and took a deep breath as he moved to stand next to Lassiter. "I've worked with Agent Borrows before."

"He didn't recognize you?" Gus said, and glanced toward Shawn who continued to clench and unclench his jaw muscles.

Henry signed and shook his head. "Let's hope he doesn't."

Lassiter turned toward Henry. "Why?"

Henry crossed his arms over his chest and turned toward his son and the others. "Because 25 years ago Borrows shows up here with guns blazing — fresh out of the academy — with the intention of solving a kidnapping case—he blew it—and he blew it big time. I was the officer that proved his theory wrong. So, needless to say," he shrugged and glanced toward Borrows, "if he remembers me he'll do everything in his power to prove himself right."

Henry looked toward Shawn and Gus. "Get to the office and see what you can find on your own—DO NOT," he pointed toward Shawn, "do anything that could get you into trouble—we're not dealing with a common street thug—not with the kind of technology he's using."

"And you," Henry pointed toward Lassiter, "do whatever that man says unless you can prove him wrong with absolute certainty." He lowered his hands to hips and realized he was still in his fishing clothes.

"What are you going to do?" Gus asked.

"I'm going to go home and change my clothes and being that I've been asked to consult on this case given my experience, I'm going to get to work." He chuckled, slapped Shawn on the shoulder and walked out of the office.

Lassiter grabbed the file from the table's surface.

"That guy's a dick," Shawn said, and watched the two agents speak with the chief. Detective O'Hara stood next to her in support. "Like Anton Chigurh from Old Country for No Men."

"That's No Country for Old Men." Gus shook his head and sighed.

"Oldman, Gary Oldman?" Shawn frowned, and looked toward Gus, "Gary Oldman wasn't in—"

"Of everything that is holy!" Lassiter snapped, and gripping the file. In defeat he shrugged his shoulders and walked toward his desk, he tossed the file atop the surface he looked around the room toward prying eyes. He gripped the back of his chair, moved it back and then took a seat resting his right elbow on the armrest he scratched his chin and then punched in his password to his computer. _Damn feds_.

"It's not luck, Gus," Shawn said, and watched Lassiter's less than enthusiastic movements, like a robot standing at a station with one job.

"I know," Gus said. He gripped his friend's shoulder. "Let's go."

Shawn nodded and followed Gus from the conference room. The air was stagnate, the bullpen unusually quiet except for the occasional ring from a phone. Shawn caught a glimpse of the chief, nodded as instructions were relayed to her. She turned in time to see him, and for a moment they shared eye contact before her attention was once again pulled toward the two FBI agents standing before her.

"Shawn!" Buzz yelled, and stopped him before he could leave the building. "Listen," he paused and looked around and then glanced toward the chief's office, "chief wanted me to give you this." He handed him a folded slip of paper.

"You read it?" Shawn asked, as he unfolded the paper.

"Heck no," Buzz said, "it's confidential."

Shawn looked up with his eyebrows raised. "Confidential just means you have to know when to keep your mouth shut. If you're going to aspire to be like Lassie over there," he looked past Buzz toward the head detective, "you're going to have to get snoopy—just don't tell anyone." He slapped him on the shoulder, but continued to look at Lassiter who sat hunched at his desk, not unlike a man coming off a high.

"Thanks, Shawn," Buzz said, "I'll keep your advice… confidential." He turned and walked back to his work station.

"Right on," Shawn said, and then read the note, _stay on this_ , was written in red with several exclamation points behind it. He looked up toward the chief's office and could tell the feds had moved into more comfortable positions while Karen leaned against the front of her desk. Juliet was nowhere to be seen. He folded the paper into its original form and followed Gus to the blueberry.

 **Chapter 4**

Shawn stood before glass pane that had been covered in handwritten notes, post-its and dry erase markers. The uneaten plate of tacos rested atop his desk. The meat had cooled and the fat had hardened, turning a bright orange with seasoning. He had shot 30 slips of wadded up papers toward the garbage hoop and missed half as he continued to be distracted with his suicide case, Chief Vick's situation, and the offensive comments made by Agent Borrows.

He rubbed the back of his neck and continued to listen to Gus type on his computer. Fingers moved steadily across the keyboard, only on occasion missing a stroke, then he would pause and tap the backspace button a few times before he continued.

It was late, and the day's beach front activities had quieted down. A few groups could be heard as they laughed and chatted while they walked past the office. Cars were started, surfboards repacked and picnic baskets emptied of garbage. A few fires could be seen from the Psych office window, but for most the day had ended for the majority of citizens.

Shawn stared at the wall before him.

"I can't find anything," Gus said, and pushed his computer away from the edge of the desk. "most of the information I've entered regarding phone hacking, spyware or event secondary downloads is still in the theoretical stages—at least from what I'm finding." He leaned back, folded his fingers together behind his head and looked at Shawn. "They've only recently started advising cell phone users to purchase some of the virus protection software that's out there—but even that is still in the early stages of production.

"Maybe Lassiter was right." Gus shrugged and lowered his hands to his lap. "Maybe Wallenski got ahold of the chief's phone."

"He didn't get a hold of her phone!" Shawn returned to his desk and sat in his chair facing the wall of information. "And even if he did, Geoff Wallenski stole some guy's mail and used his own computer to process credit card purchases. He is not a rocket scientist, Gus, he builds computers he doesn't program them.

"I may not know much about computers, but I know the level of skill needed for programming has got to be more given the amount of money they make."

"Programming is not that difficult once you understand the dynamics and equations." Gus stood, slipped into his jacket and closed his laptop. "I'm going home."

Gus grabbed his keys, dangled them momentary before he shoved them into his jacket pocket. He walked toward the door and paused. "Lassiter is a good detective—he may be a hard ass, but he still deserves our respect."

"He's wrong, Gus."

"Then find the evidence to prove it. I've got appointments in the morning and the afternoon so I'll see you after four." He left, and locked the door behind him.

Shawn grabbed the plate of food and tossed it into the garbage. He reached into his desk drawer and grabbed a notepad. Convinced that Wallenski was not the perpetrator he started rewriting files, coordinated names with dates, locations with Google searches, and coordinated news articles.

He nursed a bottle of water and munched on Gus' Doritos. Orange residue was smeared across his desk and the more he wrote and munched and surfed the web the further the residue spread. Articles too large to read were printed for a later time. He never heard the clock ticking, the refrigerator kick on and off throughout the night or the sound of pedestrians as they walked while early morning sun started to rise.

Shawn paused when he read the name of Peter Santora, killed in a hit and run accident involving a well-known alcoholic who finally took his drinking a step too far. Shawn scrolled further down, recognizing the name of Jessica Holms, his suicide victim. He hit the print button and returned to the search menu to find more information about Mr. Santora.

Peter Santora had served his country in the military until his service was up. At that time he went to work for his family who owned a small bistro on the other side of town. He was smart and motivated, having completed his college degree in biology he went to work for the local land trust and tested private and public wells, lakes, and streams. He had been outspoken about the environment which had earned him a feature spread in a small local paper. He had spoken briefly his true love, Jessica Holms, while serving on jury duty. They had stood together despite the odds and turned in a guilty verdict for Jason Eastwood who had lit seventeen fires across the city which resulted in the deaths of three people. Santora had been killed just weeks before his wedding.

Shawn rubbed his face, printed the article and returned to the search menu. Jason Eastwood was a name he vaguely remembered, the arsons had occurred when Playboy playmates were much more entertaining than the local news. He continued to search until he came across an article that had released the names of all the jurors, the attorneys, judge and prosecuting attorney.

He moved through the names, typing in each one. Some he could find, but those he did were dead. Each obituary and death notice he found he printed, some of accidental deaths. It had been fourteen years since Eastwood had been convicted, it wasn't' surprising that some may have passed away, but as the list continued to grow so did Shawn's suspicions.

"Shawn!" Gus said, walking into the room. He glanced toward the overflowing garbage can, the stack of printouts and the handwritten notes that had been organized by color across the floor. The glass room divider appeared even more cluttered as arrows, roughly cut images of people and small post-it-notes with a large question marks cluttered the wall. "Is that pudding on the glass?"

Shawn sat at his desk, leaned over the top surface and rested his head on his right bicep while he continued to read documents on his computer. "How many people would you expect to die in a span of fifteen years out of a group of…" he paused a moment, counting, "18 or 19?"

"What?" Gus turned, and tossed his jacket onto his chair. "It would depend on the group of people, their age, their medical history—if it's a group of 19 cliff jumpers I'm going to say all would be dead after 15 years if they didn't get smart." He placed his hands on his hips and looked around the office. It was a mess.

"What about a jury?"

"There are only 12 members of a jury and two alternates, that doesn't equal 18 or 19." Gus walked toward the cabinet by the refrigerator and reached for a garbage bag. "It stinks in here." He frowned, turning up his nose as he got closer to Shawn's desk and stalled for a moment.

Shawn still hadn't moved.

"You didn't go home last night?" Gus said.

"I'm onto something here, Gus," he said, and pushed himself upright. He leaned back in his seat and paused a moment, then rubbed his hand over his face and scratched at the extra growth of stubble.

"Juliet called me a while ago," Gus said, and took a deep breath. "They're going to arrest Wallenski for plotting to commit murder. They found more evidence that links him to the phone message."

Shawn shook his head. "What evidence?" He looked at Gus.

"They linked his case to another one where nude photos of himself were spontaneously appearing on a few selected cell phones. He was the one who repaired the chief's phone. They're going to make an arrest first thing tomorrow—they're just awaiting the warrant."

Shawn looked away and clenched his jaw. He stood abruptly and grabbed his jacket off the coat rack. "They're wrong, Gus, I can feel it in my gut." He slipped it on and patted his pockets.

"You don't have any proof," Gus said, then tossed the garbage bag onto Shawn's desk.

"I'll divine some at the station, let's go."

"Shawn!" Gus shook his head, jogged toward the chair and grabbed his jacket then quickly followed his friend out the door.

Chapter 5

Santa Barbara's finest had packed themselves closely together around the table and bulletin board. Both FBI agents and the bullpen had taken on the odor and look of tightly packaged sardines. Detective Lassiter and O'Hara stood to the left while Agent Borrows and his partner Agent Dean Tompkins spoke about the case and how it would unfold.

Images of Geoff Wallenski were posted on the board behind Borrows right shoulder. The pictures had been captured by surveillance crews just after the case had been approved by the DA for prosecution once physical evidence was in hand. They were unflattering images: Geoff grinning at the customer service counter at his place of employment, eating a burger, and there were several of him speaking with clients.

"Our records indicate that Wallenski," Burrow's voice carried enough for Shawn and Gus to hear from the back of the room, behind the tightly clustered officers who anxiously awaited his next words, "did receive online programming training which would have enabled him to hack into unsuspecting victims' phones—including Chief Karen Vick.

"The search warrant will cover any and all devices he currently owns and operates at Harper's Phone Repair shop."

"Shawn," Henry said in a hushed tone while he squeezed past a couple of uniformed officers. "You know you shouldn't be here."

"This is all wrong," Shawn said, he lowered his voice and turned toward his father, "I found something and I really, really think it might lead us in an entirely different direction."

"First of all, there is no _us_ , you've been not so politely asked to stay away from this case, and second of all, this is now a federal investigation given the charges—you're smarter than this, Shawn, and you know that," he pointed toward Borrows, "guy has the authority to make your life hell for a very long time if you get on his nerves."

"There is more to this—"

"Have you heard anything Borrows has said? Once that warrant comes through they have enough physical evidence to put Wallenski away for a very long time—he's not a good guy. I've seen the evidence." Henry clenched his jaw and shrugged his shoulders. "I hate to say it, kid, but I think you're wrong on this one."

"It's not him." Shawn looked around as several officers turned momentarily to stare. "It's not—I'm sure of it." He met his father's eyes.

Henry pressed his lips together and shook his head. "You're wrong this time—you're too damn close to the case and too worried about making a name for yourself. This is not how to get things done." He gripped Shawn's arm above his elbow tightly. "The evidence is there."

Shawn pulled his arm away and brought his hand up to his head, fingers spread wide as he touched his temple. He ignored the warning look from his father and said, "They're wrong." He looked at his dad and purposely bumped into the officer who stood before him.

"Wait!" Shawn said, his eyelids clenched tightly. "There's something…" he struggled to the front of the room, officers moving out of his way. "I see… I see… East…" he fought through the vision, stumbled into officers and reached out for balance while he caught glimpses of Agent Borrows with his arms crossed over his chest and lips pressed into a frown, "Eastman… Eastland… Eastwood—yes, Eastwood, Clint Eastwood!" he lowered his arms and frowned with a shake of his head. "That's not right. No!" He raised his hands again to his head, and bumped into the table.

Henry looked at Gus and shook his head before he turned and left. Gus turned and watched Lassiter whisper into Juliet's ear. She sighed and then frowned in disappointment. Lassiter stood upright, arms crossed, tightly clenched and unclenched his jaw.

Shawn paused in deep concentration. "Jacob, John, Jonas," he winced, "James… James Eastwood." He signed and leaned against the table.

"I thought I told you to stay out of this case?" Borrows said, and took a step toward him.

"But… that was yesterday." Shawn cocked an eyebrow. "And, James Eastwood is a viable lead."

Borrows smiled and leaned forward, forcing Shawn further back against the table. "Maybe, if he hadn't been shanked in prison three years ago." He looked toward McNab, "You!" He pointed.

Buzz looked around and pointed toward himself. "Me?"

"No, the Goliath next to you, yes, you!" Borrows stepped back and grabbed the Wallenski file. "Remove him and his partner from the premises—if you see him again—arrest him for trespassing. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," Buzz said. He walked forward and grabbed Shawn by his shoulder and forced him forward.

"There is more going on here than a creepy dude with really good phone skills." He walked backward as Buzz continued to pull on his shoulder.

"Some people without brains do an awful lot of talking, don't you think?"

"Seriously! Did you just quote the Wizard of Oz? Dude," Shawn raised his voice, "that movie is a million years old and doesn't even relate in today's society—" He was out the front door with Gus a few feet behind.

Buzz stood in front of the door. "I'm sorry, Shawn."

Shawn groaned in the back of his throat, tossed his hands in the air, and then tightly gripped his skull with both hands. "This is bullshit!" He pulled at his hair and then dropped his hands to his sides.

"Shawn!" Gus yelled, and started to walk toward his car. "Let's go!"

"Buzz," Shawn turned toward him, "there is more going on in this case than Wallenski—you've got to believe me." He turned and kicked the banister. "Shit!"

"Shawn, you'd better go." Buzz turned as prying eyes peered through the window.

Shawn nodded and then scratched his jaw. "Do me a favor." He met Buzz's eyes. "Keep the chief in your sight, Buzz, and tell her to keep her head down, okay? Promise me?"

"Alright, Shawn, I'll do it."

Shawn took a deep breath. "Thanks, man." He turned and jogged toward Gus' car.

 **Chapter 6**

Gus drove, both hands gripped the steering wheel, shoulders where hunched, and his brow furrowed. The sun was just beginning its descent and despite the beautiful view out of the windshield, his stomach rolled and his gut twisted. He could still see the eyes of all of those officers looking at him to do something to shut Shawn up.

"They're wrong," Shawn said. He leaned against the seat, his right elbow on the well of the window while he pinched at his lower lip.

Gus quickly turned into the Psych parking lot next to Shawn's bike and then slammed on his breaks. "Is that what this is about? Proving everyone else wrong—you could've fooled me, Shawn, it didn't look like anyone was buying your ideas—even your dad walked out." He turned slightly in his seat and reached across Shawn's lap and opened the passenger side door.

"Come on, Gus." Shawn looked at him, frustrated, exhausted, and beaten down. "Not you too?"

"They got the guy they want and that's not going to change because you've got it in your head that this is some big conspiracy. People die all the time and sometimes it happens because it's their choice and other times accidents happen."

"Eight jurors are dead, eight, and all under weird circumstances—and I haven't even found the others yet—"

"So maybe this has more to do with a different case, why does this have to be about the chief?"

"Because," Shawn signed and leaned back, "because she was the lead detective on Eastwood's case—she worked closely with the district attorney and helped get the conviction—the same DA who died of lung cancer." He unhooked his seatbelt and motioned to get out of the car.

"Cancer is the key word, Shawn, and it doesn't count!" Gus sighed, "You need to get some rest, you're not thinking clearly. Let them make their arrest and if they find what they need to bring it to trial you'll know they were right."

Shawn clenched his jaw, stood, and closed the passenger door. He scratched the back of his neck before he started to walk toward the office.

"Shawn!" Gus yelled out the window of his car, his left hand on the doorframe. "I'll bring some food in the morning and we can talk this through."

Shawn nodded, waved, and then watched as Gus backed his car, turned, and headed home. He could smell the beach, and the waves of food odors that traveled with pedestrians. He could hear dogs bark further down the boardwalk and children laughed and chased each other through the soft sand. Couples walked arm in arm, while others jogged listening to music and teenagers spoke to each other via text messages.

He opened the door and saw the mess he had made hours earlier. He took a deep breath he started to sort, and take notes on what it was he could and could not see. What information he could assume and what needed more research. While his body craved sleep, his mind sought answers that were not forthcoming.

That is when he saw it, a small notation at the end of an article he had started, and swore he would get back to when he hit the print button. Jason Eastwood had been killed three years prior on a Monday afternoon after spending an hour in the yard. The showers were not a prisoner's best friend, and a sharpened toothbrush had led to his demise. He had bled to death on the shower floor.

Shawn, seated on the floor, lay back and looked at the note covered glass room divider upside down. He took a deep breath and listened as the children from earlier raced past his office chanting "catch me if you can". He stood and returned to his computer where he immediately returned to the social security administration's homepage in search of more death records.

 **Chapter 7**

Lassiter sat alone in the conference room. His tie had been loosened and the top button of his shirt released. His jacket hung off the back of his chair and he slowly twisted a cup of coffee that had cooled. He flipped through the pages of the Eastwood file. He rubbed his brow and looked up as O'Hara stepped into the room.

Her hair had started to fray from the bun she had loosely tucked at the base of her neck. Blonde hairs flowed freely and he caught her scratching her nose on occasion as one would get too personal. She took a seat across from him, and looked more tired than he had ever seen her. Her cup of coffee had been exchanged for water and she placed a half-eaten cookie next to the cup before she leaned back in her seat and took a deep breath.

"How's the chief?" Lassiter asked. He closed the file and rested his elbows on the table. He raised his right brow and expected a short answer.

Juliet broke off a piece of the cookie, took a bite, and then shrugged before she leaned forward and rested her head in her hands. "She's finally resting. Got her to lay on the sofa in her office. I've never," she paused and shook her head, "I've never seen her like this. One minute she's barking orders and the next barley holding it together.

"She's the strongest person I've ever met… and to see her like this." Juliet clenched her jaw and looked at the action in the bullpen. "They're getting ready to go after Wallenski."

Lassiter nodded and pursed his lips. He never turned to look at the orders being barked or the actions of well-trained police as they prepared to take someone down. Instead, he placed his palm on the file and shoved it toward his partner.

Juliet stopped the file from slipping toward the floor. She read the name in the top left corner and looked up at Lassiter. She cocked an eyebrow and frowned. "I thought this guy was dead?" She opened the file.

"He is, three years ago, shanked in the—"

"I heard, Carlton, but why are you looking at it now?"

Lassiter shrugged and turned toward the bullpen as the FBI's newest HQ was quickly organized and men were instructed on tactical maneuvering. He turned back toward Juliet and then took a sip of his cold coffee. "Look at the back page."

Juliet flipped through the images, newspaper clippings and handwritten notes, made by Karen Vick while she served as a detective. "She kept everything," she said, and reached the last page.

"That's why she's in the position she's in," Lassiter said. He looked again toward the bullpen as officers quickly vacated. He noticed Buzz McNab stay behind, and kept guard on the front door.

"What am I looking at, Carlton?"

"The suicide Vick asked Shawn to look at to keep him preoccupied," Lassiter sighed, "she was a member of jury that convicted Eastwood."

"You think Shawn's onto something?"

Lassiter took a deep breath and ran his hands over his face. The bullpen was nearly empty with only a few officers remaining behind. "I think Spencer has a… unique way of looking at things."

"A divined way?" Juliet smiled.

"I didn't say that," Lassiter said. He stood, stretched his back and then placed his hands on his hips. "I just think," he paused, "I think we should stand by and watch what happens with Wallenski—and, should we have any doubts—look a little closer at another possibility."

"Sounds like you already have."

"Eastwood is dead—and frankly," he ran a hand over his head and glanced toward Karen's office. "I can't really see why anyone would use the Eastwood case as a launching off point for getting back at the chief—it doesn't make any sense."

"Since when do criminals make sense? You taught me that."

Lassiter nodded and retook his seat. He cleared his throat and continued to twist his coffee cup. He clicked his tongue toward Juliet and then toward the window before he licked his lips and cleared his throat.

"Good grief, Carlton," Juliet said. "Just say it."

Lassiter leaned forward, rested his weight on his arms as he clasped the cup. "Spencer has on many occasions sent us on a wild goose chase, and I think it's because he jumps before he knows all of the details—he's not a cop—he's never been trained to think like one—to weigh the evidence and wait for backup—" he held his hand up to stop O'Hara from speaking, "but there is always a strand of evidence that keeps him on a target, even if the target is wrong."

"And you think the target isn't Wallenski, but Eastwood?"

"Jessica Holms jumped off a four-story building in front of 43 people, nobody witnessed any foul play and most of her coworkers had stated she had been under a great deal of stress. As far as I'm concerned, the case is cut and dried. However," he paused and looked over his shoulder a moment before turning back to Juliet, "why would she do it. If someone knew she was suicidal they are legally obligated to report it—"

"You think someone drove her to it." Juliet leaned back in her seat.

"I wouldn't have thought anything of it until I saw her name in that file."

"It's a long shot," Juliet said, and flipped through a few more pages. She paused a moment and clenched her jaw. "Henry Spencer is listed as a consultant?"

Lassiter nodded. "Chief and Henry worked together on one of the arson fires. Eastwood didn't just like to set fires in Santa Barbara and Henry hasn't been targeted," he sighed and then finished his coffee, "and it's best if we don't push it until we know more."

The knock at the door caused both officers to jump and Buzz McNab peered in. "Flogging Judge Kay Latz is here—"

Before he could finish Lassiter turned toward O'Hara, grabbed his jacket and was out the door before another word could be uttered. Juliet soon followed, wiped the wrinkles out of her jacket and tried to tame straying hair.

Judge Latz stood five feet tall with three inch heels. Despite her short stature and tiny frame, she was well known for her blunt tell-it-like-it-is attitude. Her silver white hair was cut short and close to her scalp. She wore a small pearl necklace, earrings and a dark green pant suite with a cream silk top. She did not carry a purse, just a satchel that was tucked between her chest and forearm. In her right hand, she held a Starbucks Venti cappuccino.

"Where's the chief?" Judge Latz said. She pressed narrow lips together. She raised her eyebrows above the rim of her glasses and pointed with her coffee toward Buzz. "Little John over there said she was indisposed."

"Judge Latz," Lassiter said, and then cleared his throat. "We are currently dealing with—"

"I know what you are dealing with, detective," Kay placed her coffee aside and reached into her satchel and removed a manila envelope and handed it to him. "I received it yesterday."

Lassiter opened the envelope and removed the photograph and type written note.

"I'll get the chief," Juliet said, and quickly excused herself.

Lassiter stepped to the side and motioned for Jude Latz to enter the conference room. She grabbed her coffee, moved past him, and took a seat against the far wall. She placed her satchel before her and placed her coffee to her right before she leaned back against the seat and crossed her ankles. She watched him lay the image and note next to each other for the chief's immediate review.

"The facilities planner at the court house had to create a chair for me when I was first elected to the bench," Kay said with a chuckle. She took a sip of her coffee and then folded her hands in her lap. "You couldn't see the top of my head unless I stood up—didn't make for a serious court room—until I threatened the entire court with contempt unless they quit their snickering."

"That how you got your nickname?" Lassiter took a seat to her right.

"No," she said, and glanced toward the door as Karen and Juliet walked toward them. "My first day on the job, the dockets scheduled were minor traffic infractions—speeding, parking tickets, you know the drill. Anyway, every kid that entered the court room had never heard of a belt, and because of that, I was forced to look at boxer shorts and tighty-whities because they didn't have sense enough to buy pants that fit. I made it very clear that the next twerp that entered my court room without proper attire would be flogged—not that I could enforce it, but hanging the whip behind my desk did detour the disrespect." She smiled and winked toward him.

"Kay," Karen said, and outstretched her hand for a firm shake.

"Been a long time, Karen." Kay leaned back and rested her arm on the table's edge. "You look like shit."

Karen nodded and took a seat, and looked at the image and the note.

"I don't receive mail at my home address for safety reasons, it all gets delivered to the office—hell, my home isn't even listed under my name at the assessor's office." Kay leaned forward and tapped the image. "That is a picture of a picture from my home—so someone was inside my house and knew where to find this. They got past my security cameras, and the alarm system to get to this image."

"Have you shown this to anyone else?" Karen asked.

"A few selected members of my staff and of course, Bill Withers, the man in the photograph with me. I encouraged him to take a trip to London until he hears from me." She licked her lips, took a pull from her coffee and leaned back. "I heard what happened to you—about the cell phone image and the message. I don't use or own a cell phone—which means whoever is behind this knew how to get my attention."

"Where did you first find this?" Juliet asked. She stood behind Karen and next to the door.

"It was on my bed when I got home from work." Kay took a deep breath. "I understand the FBI is involved?"

"SAC Borrows is the primary," Karen replied. She read the text on the note. "He and a team are currently apprehending Geoff Wallenski."

Kay shook her head. "Wallenski is not your man."

 **Chapter 8**

By 3:00 a.m. Shawn could feel every missed minute of sleep. Caffeine had long worn out its welcome as his mind raced, hands shook, and every nerve frayed. Eating had been forgotten about, but the midnight shower had helped clear his head. He had gone days without sleeping before, but usually it entailed driving to and from a rock concert or a carnival sporting women in short skirts and unusual food.

This was different. He was not worn out from fun, but exhausted because a friend had asked him for help.

Karen Vick had given him a chance and let him talk his way out of an arrest because of his claim of being psychic. And then she had called him back, granted, many times he had weaseled his way onto a case because of his unique insight into a crime scene or a victim, but she had found value in his work. Over all, it made him feel good. It made him feel a part of something bigger than what he had been doing without the label his father had forced on him as a kid. He was not a cop, nor did he have the desire to be one, but he was good at solving puzzles and seeing details that were often overlooked.

Standing in front of the Plexiglas wall, Shawn continued to towel dry his wet head. He had changed his clothes and organized the office into ordered chaos that he understood. He looked again at the image he had pulled from Facebook, the psychic detective's best friend and a narcissist's worst. A dedication page had been in place since the death of Jason Eastwood three years prior. It should have been easy to find, but the page's administrator wasn't looking for fans or donations, but rather listeners. And currently that was 31.

Melinda Caine Mosby had created the page in dedication to her darling boy. The Santa Barbara socialite had immediately left her home and moved to Europe to clear her head while she mourned the death of her only child who had been wrongfully accused of murder.

The Facebook page, though dedicated to the memory of her son, was primarily about her, even in title, which is what made it so difficult to find. She had married a French businessman with unlimited funds. The images posted included her son's birthday party, he was present only by a photograph next to the extravagant cake. Melinda sat next to the image; face heavily painted while she wore a low-cut blouse.

Shawn winced. The images had become more unsettling. The framed photograph of James was presented several more times in various vacation spots throughout Europe, much like the Travelocity gnome. He continued to scroll through the posts, and caught glimpses of a mother mourning her only child as well as a woman obsessed with herself. He had stopped after three screens, having to turn away for some air.

Shawn returned to his desk and looked again at the Facebook page. A few friends had commented, but most of those had dwindled as the years went by. Shawn scrolled to the first page and Melinda's first post and started to read. He caught glimpses of anger, bitterness and betrayal. Everyone, but her son, was guilty of arson and murder, her child could never do what "they" had accused and because of "their" judgment, he had been murdered by a known gang member while serving time for a crime he had not committed. Despite the hard evidence that the file and court records produced, Melinda Caine Mosby knew her son was innocent.

It was a link posted by a friend that caught Shawn's attention. He clicked it and it took him to the newspaper, The Statesman. He scrolled through the headlines and paused when he read the obituaries, Wilson Seavers had been killed in an automobile accident, he had fallen asleep at the wheel. Shawn paused and looked at the glass room divider and sighed when he reread his notes of juror number four, Wilson Seavers—deceased.

There were nine more links to newspapers listed on the Facebook page, all listed by a strange guest who did nothing but add newspaper links to Melinda's wall.

Shawn closed his eyes and reviewed in his mind the images, notations, and articles he had seen for the past few days. He jumped to his feet and rushed toward the pile of articles and searched for an image he hadn't thought much of when he had first seen it. Papers filtered across the floor and he pulled the fuzzy black and white picture from the pile, realizing that Santa Barbara's socialite had taken up vacationing in Nuremberg, Germany and had been spotted on several occasions with an unknown man. His features were always hidden from view. Shawn wouldn't have thought much about the images, however, the dates of the streams of newspapers had caught him unaware, inadvertently, they had matched within weeks of each image of Melinda Mosby meeting with the stranger at high publicized events: fashion shows, movie premiers, restaurant openings and parties.

He could feel his heart race as he searched for more images of the stranger. He was a big man with a strong jaw, dark hair, and deep set eyes. He was average looking, easily blending in with those he accompanied. Despite how much Shawn searched, he couldn't find a name, and a name was all he needed. He understood now what was happening and he could easily see that this attack against Chief Vick was nothing more than the final steps to a very long and drawn out game.

It made sense now. Geoff Wallenski was the scapegoat; he was an easy target for the police to focus on while the real assassin worked his magic. Shawn stood and paced across the floor and pressed his fingers to his temples as he tried to connect the dots. He wanted to call Gus, spill his theory, and then prove his point, but his best friend was as exhausted and Gus had a full-time job on top of the psych agency.

Shawn frowned and moved back to his computer and accessed a webpage that he had happened upon many years prior while he worked as a research assistant for an international data collection agency. He had hated the job, becoming board in a matter of weeks while sitting at a cubicle in a high-rise building in Denver Colorado. He had been fired after his supervisor had discovered his propensity for Victoria's Secret models and his ability to figure out celebrity's real names. He paused at the external login page, pressed his lips together he entered his old bosses name and password. Within a few moments, he was in. He smiled, entered the name of Melinda Caine Mosby and waited for her profile to appear.

It was easy to figure out from there. People in general were too trusting, giving their phone numbers and zip codes to department stores at the cash registers. Even the credit card applications, those accepted and those denied were entered into the database. Addresses, phone numbers, emails, family members, purchasing habits and sinful desires were all available to anyone who cared to look. T

Melinda Mosby liked expensive jewelry, and had over the past two and a half years spent an exorbitant amount of money at a boutique called "Bells & Whistles". It was owned by a modest designer who had never made it big despite her best efforts.

Shawn continued to merge the information in his head, finding bits and pieces of facts and processed them in a manner that only he understood. People were by nature creatures of habit and it was those habits that leaked the information needed. It wasn't until Shawn pulled up the local newspaper in Nuremberg that he noticed the front page of the owner and designer of Bells and Whistles alongside her husband, Nichols Hammatz. Shawn recognized the face and stood, rubbed the back of his neck and closed his eyes, exhaustion momentarily forgotten, he then looked around the room, heart racing, breathing momentarily stalled.

Shawn found him.

Shawn clenched his jaw, grabbed his cell phone and his helmet, and rushed toward his bike. He forgot to lock the door behind him. He punched a few numbers and stood beside the bike while the phone rang. He gripped the helmet, and stared down the road at the closed businesses and empty streets. He fidgeted while he waited for his father to pick up. That was when he looked at his watch: 4:00 a.m., his dad was going to kill him.

"I've figured it out!"

" _Shawn, stop! It's… four in the morning_."

"Just listen—"

" _No!_ " _Henry paused, and_ _pinch_ _ed the bridge of his nose as he sat up in bed. He_ _press_ _ed the phone to his ear. "I want you to stop this—you have blown this into something it's not. Karen asked you for help and instead you're looking at a case that's unrelated—"_

"They're not unrelated!" Shawn kicked a stone and sent it across the parking lot in a turret of skids and slides. "Please," he paused, "just listen this once—"

" _Shawn, you can't keep—_ "

"Please, dad!" Shawn took a deep breath, closed his eyes and waited. "Please."

 _There was a long pause before Henry cleared his throat and said, "I'm listening."_

Nichols Hammatz stepped out of the bathroom followed by a plume of steam. A towel was draped over his broad shoulders and he finished tying the pull string of his sweat pants. He was a big man with muscles that flexed with each movement. A black tattoo adorned his left shoulder: the cross hairs of a rifle wrapped in barbed wire.

The cabin was small and located just minutes from town and surrounded by the natural landscape of trees and lush grasses. It was small, but suffice for a temporary residence. A narrow bed had been placed against the far wall between two support beams, and across from the front door. To the right of the bed was a small wood burning stove and kitchenette. To the left the entry to the bathroom and the extensive workstation that held nine computer monitors and four computer towers. The screens flashed images of the interior of the Santa Barbara police station, including Chief Vick's office, the parking lot, the interior of homes, and a judge's chambers.

Nichols took a seat at his computer and leaned forward, and turned up the volume of the phone conversation that currently took place. Henry and Shawn's voices echoed over the airways.

" _Shawn, you'd better have solid evidence and not just a gut feeling_."

" _Jason Eastwood's mother hired a hitman—Every single juror who served at Eastwood's trial is dead—the prosecuting attorney is dead—Geoff Wallenski is a decoy—the man Borrows should—"_

Nichols took a deep breath and hit a button on his computer.

The phone cut out.

"be after is Nichols Hammatz—" Shawn sighed, looked at his phone and groaned. "Shit!" There hadn't been a warning to the battery going dead and he tried to turn the phone off and on but it failed. He slipped his helmet on, mounted his bike, and headed toward the station.

"Shawn!" Henry looked at his phone, and tried to dial his son. He was greeted with dead air. He slipped out of bed and grabbed the pair of jeans that had been tossed on the chair next to his dresser. "Damn it," he said, as he slipped into his jeans, a shirt, and comfortable shoes, before he grabbed his wallet and keys to his truck.

Nichols grabbed his keys off the small table next to his bed and grabbed the long rifle case from behind the front door. He had changed into jeans and a long sleeved black tee and his steel toed boots scuffed the floor as he walked outside. He placed his supplies into the passenger seat of the pickup, started the engine and flipped on the police scanner.

Henry reached the police station and marched into the conference room. Agent Borrows and his partner stood near the head of the table discussing Wallenski while Karen, Lassiter and O'Hara chatted near the door. The all looked tired, but for the first time since this started they did look relieved.

"Henry?" Karen said, and looked past Lassiter's shoulder.

"Have you seen Shawn?" he asked, and looked toward the front door.

"He hasn't been here since his episode yesterday," Lassiter said.

"Geoff Wallenski is in custody, Henry, and several pieces of evidence were found in his possession at the time of his arrest—the prosecuting attorney is expected here first thing this morning." Karen sighed. "Why would you think Shawn was here?"

Henry again looked toward the door in anticipation of his son's arrival. "He called me claiming that Wallenski is a decoy—"

"Hardly," Borrows said. He stepped away from his partner and toward the group. "I understand, Mr. Spencer, that your son has impressed some when it comes to his 'talent." However, this case does not require his nor your assistance." His face had turned red and lips had narrowed.

"What else did he say, Henry?" Karen asked. She crossed her arms over her chest.

"We were cut off before he could finish—but he said something about Eastwood's mother hiring the hit—I've tried calling him back but his phone is dead." Henry reached for the conference room phone, hit the speaker button and entered Shawn's number. They were met with dead air. "I thought he might come here."

"He forget to pay his bill?" Lassiter said, and rubbed his face.

"No," Henry replied. "Shawn mentioned something about every juror who served on the Eastwood trial has died—"

"Your son's incessant need for attention and notoriety is blatantly obvious and I'm not entirely sure why you are here other than to create doubt to an otherwise successful arrest of a criminal who has had the opportunity to create havoc in the lives of those he despises. My case is solid and will remain as such." Agent Borrows turned toward Chief Vick. "If you feel the need to open an adjacent case regarding Eastwood—then feel free to do so.

"My role here was to investigate the threat of a public official." Borrows looked at Karen. "I've completed that task and feel very comfortable with the evidence discovered at his place of employment and home that he is indeed the perpetrator who sent you, and subsequently Judge Latz, images obtained from your personal cell phone—"

"What about the multimedia message?" Juliet asked. She shifted uncomfortably under Borrows intense stare.

"Part of his game, detective—that's all it is and if you continue to feed his need of control you we'll all be living in a chronic state of paranoia for months to come." He shifted and stretched his back before he scratched the back of his neck. "He has asked for an attorney and until one can be ascertained," he looked at his watch, "given the time of day I would guess we'll see someone march in here about eight a.m. and until that point in time I would suggest filling out the proper paperwork so we don't have another situation arise regarding the dismissal of solid evidence." He moved past Karen and then past Henry. He stopped momentarily at the coffee station to refill his cup.

"I really don't like him," Lassiter said.

"He's not all bad," Agent Tompkins said, and placed his hands on his hips. He stood near the windows that overlooked the bullpen. His tie had been loosened around his neck and shirt pulled out of his pants. "He's tired—"

"We're all tired," Lassiter said.

"No," Tompkins looked forward with his eyebrows raised, "he's got three more years until he retires with full benefits—the man is tired of the job, he's tired of people—he's just sick and tired of being an agent—"

"Then he shouldn't be putting other people's lives at stake because he can't get past the fact that he might be wrong." Henry clenched his jaw and looked again toward the door.

"Borrows is right, Henry," Karen said, "the case against Wallenski is solid—I've seen the evidence and if I were charged with leading the investigation I would move forward with it—However," she looked at Agent Tompkins, "I would also assign an officer or two to investigate the Eastwood file given Shawn's history with the department and if indeed all of the jurors have died since the trial there may be something going on more in-depth than we originally thought and it may not be related to the threat against myself or Kay." She looked toward the door as Buzz entered the station after having left only six hours before. His uniform had been ironed. He looked tired, but she couldn't help but smile.

"I want you all to go home and get a few hours of sleep—come back when you've had a chance to clear your heads—" Karen looked at her watch, "I don't want to see anyone here before 10:00 am."

"What about Shawn?" Juliet asked, looking from Henry to the chief.

"We can file a missing person's report—but he may have simply run out of gas or if he was smart—he went home to get some rest—and like the rest of us he looked exhausted and lacked his usual antics yesterday when he divined Eastwood, or rather," she smiled toward Henry, "Clint Eastwood."

Karen reached up and gripped Henry's shoulder. "Feel free to use my phone and call Gus, call Shawn at home and if you feel like something is truly wrong, I'll have Officer McNab assist you—"

"Buzz won't leave your sight, chief," Juliet said.

"He's been rather clingy, but I assumed that was because of the situation." Karen frowned, and tilted her head to the left.

Juliet shook her head: "Last night when Buzz escorted Shawn out he promised he'd keep an eye on you until Shawn could come up with the evidence he needed—when Shawn left he really felt like Eastwood was behind all of this and he asked Buzz to watch out for you—it took both Carlton and I to convince him to go home last night and get some rest, but only after we promised him you wouldn't leave the station."

Henry smiled but it didn't last. He scratched at his nose and turned again toward the door hoping to see his son walk through.

Shawn didn't.

"Wallenski has been apprehended," Agent Borrows asked, "why is he here?" he looked toward Buzz.

Henry clenched his jaw and felt a tightness in his gut. "He believes Shawn." He turned and left the room and headed toward Vick's office.

 **Chapter 9**

Gus looked at his phone and frowned. His conversation with Henry had been short and to the point. No, he hadn't see Shawn, not since dropping him off at a quarter past five the night before. He tried to call, first hitting the speed dial, and when the phone went dead he sighed and tried again. The phone went to dead air, again. The next time he tried, he manually punched in the numbers and waited. Again, the phone went to dead air.

Shawn, if anything, was unpredictable and somehow managed to disconnect his phone. Gus shook his head and stood. He stretched his back and then headed toward the bathroom to shower and change. As soon as he could, he would drive to the police station and see what was really going on. But first he would stop at the Psych office to make sure Shawn hadn't fallen asleep on the sofa with the phone turned upside down on the charger.

By seven a.m. Gus walked into the police station to find Henry and Karen in her office chatting. Lassiter and O'Hara had returned just moments before, both having had the opportunity to change, shower and catch a brief nap. Agent Tompkins and Borrows were gone, having left for their hotel rooms to catch up on some much-needed sleep.

Buzz nodded toward Gus and stopped him by grabbing his arm. "Chief said to go on in."

"Thanks, Buzz," Gus said. He glanced toward Lassiter and O'Hara who both sat at their computers working diligently.

The station was quiet, quieter than it had been in days. The water cooler chats had seized as well as the impromptu hoop-fests. Now, paperwork was being completed with every i dotted and every t crossed.

Karen, stood beside her desk in the same clothes she had been in for the past few days. He looked tired and run down. Dark circles hung beneath her eyes, and her complexion was pale. Henry sat in the chair in front of her desk. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. His blue work shirt pulled tight at the shoulders.

"Gus," Karen said, and motioned for him to join them. "No sign of Shawn?"

Gus looked toward Henry who had turned to look up at him. "No," he sighed, "the office was unlocked but everything looked normal. I think," he paused, "I think he was working on the Eastwood file again—there're stacks of information all over the office."

Henry clenched his jaw and leaned back against the seat. He rubbed his chin and then his brow in an effort to ward off his worry.

"I went by his apartment too, and he wasn't there—I don't think he's been there for days. There was a rotten pineapple on the kitchen counter."

Karen looked toward Lassiter who had looked up from his computer and shook his head. "Have you contacted his phone provider?"

Lassiter nodded: "They're checking into it now and will contact me once they know more."

"What about girlfriends?"

"I didn't think this was an official missing person's case?" Henry said, looking up toward Karen. His worry growing by the minute.

"It's not, Henry, but given the situation I thought it best to cover our entire basis earlier rather than later."

Gus turned when Buzz knocked on the door and peeked inside. "I'm sorry, chief," he looked toward Henry, "State patrol just found Shawn's motorcycle on Highway 201—looks like a hit an' run," he clenched his jaw and swallowed, "no sign of Shawn."

Karen took a deep breath, got to her feet, and looked at Henry who had clenched his jaw and closed his eyes. She walked around the corner of her desk, gripped Henry's shoulder and then moved to the doorway of her office. She cleared her throat, swallowed, and looked at her officers. "I want an APB on Shawn Spencer—McMannus and O'Kieffe, I want you both checking out hospitals and..." she paused, collected herself and said, "the morgues."

Henry leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and ran his hands over his head. His heart ached, throat tightened, and for a moment he lost himself in the moment. He heard Karen's words, and he understood what they meant. He'd been a cop long enough to know the repercussions of such actions, and he knew the heartache of those results.

"Shawn's not dead," Gus said. He stood, clenched his fists, kept his arms at his sides and looked from Karen to Henry both. "We have to go look for him—he's not dead."

Karen sighed and understood the fear. She looked toward O'Hara and then Lassiter. "I want you both at the scene where they found Shawn's bike—I want answers," she looked at her watch, "within the hour. Henry, Gus and I will go to the Psych office and see what we can find there—" She watched them grab their jackets, nod toward her, and leave with a sense of determination.

"—No," Buzz said, "I don't think…" He stopped himself when Karen pushed herself from the door jam. "I…"

"He's right, Karen," Henry said, and stood. He placed his hands on his hips, squared his shoulders and pulled strength from his years on the force. "If Shawn was right—your life is still at risk."

"I respect your opinion, Henry," Karen said, and forced her tired shoulders back. "But I don't agree with it. I'm confident the man who made threats against me and my family is now behind bars." She met his eyes. "Let's find your son." She turned toward her desk, grabbed her purse and the keys to her car.

Henry looked toward Buzz and shook his head. Buzz nodded, clenched his jaw and moved to the side when Karen walked past him. She squeezed his shoulder as she walked by and then looked toward the officer behind the counter. "Any word from McMannus and O'Kieffe?"

"No, chief, not yet." The young woman stood to attention, her military background and formal education accentuated her manners.

Karen nodded and hid a smile. She was more relaxed than she had been in days, but the new threat against one of their own had put her back in the driver's seat, and ready to find the one responsible for Shawn's disappearance.

Karen stepped out of the building, an entourage of officers, including Buzz and Henry following behind. Gus followed Henry, trotted to keep up as the former officer, and current 'poppa bear', was only on the mission to find his son. The sun was out, and Karen took a moment to breathe in the fresh air, and allow the sun to bask her features. She could hear mumblings of conversations behind her, the sounds of horns honking in the distance, engines roaring, and the slamming of car doors. Despite her isolation of only 48 hours, it had been enough to cause feelings of claustrophobia and home sickness. She thought about her husband and their daughter. She thought about Henry, and the fear he would be feeling despite his resistance to show it.

"We'll meet at the Psych office," Karen said, loud enough for Gus and Henry to hear, and reached for her car door.

"Chief," Buzz said, and grabbed the window frame as she opened the door. "Please." He paused a moment, looked from her to the ground and squeezed the metal of the frame.

"Say it," Karen encouraged. She tossed her purse into her car and moved to slip behind the wheel.

Buzz clenched his jaw and met her eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but stopped himself, and instead he grabbed her shoulders and shoved her back as the first shots were fired.

Chaos erupted.

Officers dove for cover behind their squad cars as bullets punctured metals, shattered glass, and flattened tires. Henry had shoved Gus behind the old Ford and ordered him to stay down while he did his best to see what was happening. But caught in a war zone was not what they had expected.

Officers radioed for help, and echoes of "shots fired", "officer down", and estimated locations of the shooters were relayed.

Adrenalin could make or break a hero, and Henry watched as those who had been trained acted every bit like the heroes they had wanted to be and grew up believing in. He looked toward Gus, who hunched as low as he could against the rear fender of the truck and looked to Henry for guidance. "It's alright, kid," Henry said, "it'll be over soon."

Gus nodded, frowned, and continued to flinch with every unfamiliar sound.

Karen gasped, tucked herself close to the rear wheel of her vehicle as shots continued to pierce the metal of her car. She had tucked her head between her arms for protection when the bullets started to fly. She looked to her right when they slowed and spotted Buzz, lying on his back, blood seeping from a wound to his chest beneath his right arm.

"Oh, God... Buzz," Karen said. She crawled toward him. She grabbed his right arm, and felt him move. Staying as low to the ground as she could she continued toward him, pressed her hand to his forehead and then quickly removed her jacket and shoved it against his bleeding side. "Stay with me." She looked at him and met his eyes. "That's an order, officer, you stay with me!"

Two minutes was not a long time, not when waiting for a phone call or waiting for the clock to strike the closing hour of the day. But in a crisis, two minutes was a lifetime. It was enough time to realize how fragile life was, and how quickly it could be snuffed out. It was also enough time to realize how insignificant pride really was.

Buzz coughed, and spit up blood. It peppered his chin and left cheek, but he continued to hold onto Karen's hand. He never heard the rush of officers around him. The sounds of sirens or the frantic calls for help. He tried to stay focused as his uniform was ripped open, ballistics vest removed, and the pressure of gauze pressed to his side. He never felt Karen's hand leave his, or the gurney ride to the ambulance.

Karen was surrounded, covered with members of Santa Barbara's SWAT team and escorted back to the department. It happened so quickly she didn't have time to process the scene, to gain a true understanding of the damage that had been done, or the fear that one of her officers may not make it. She stood in her office, tails of her blouse untucked from her slacks, dust covering her clothes, and fresh holes in the knees of her trousers. For a moment, all she could do was look toward the window that was covered, and the files on her desk that reflected a much simpler time. The chaos around her continued, but like time, it stood still, just for a moment as she processed the event, and thought about the mistakes she had made, the choices and orders she had given to risk the lives of those serving beneath her.

Henry knocked on the glass door, opened it, and closed it behind him. He had left Gus at Lassiter's desk, and he, like so many others, worked to understand what had happened. Just because Henry had thirty years on the force, didn't mean he understood the situation any more than anyone else. He looked toward the bullpen, and watched officers comfort each other, as the world they known crashed.

Frantic chaos continued.

"Karen," Henry said. He kept his voice low and steady as he reached for her shoulder and paused. "Karen?"

She nodded, took in several breaths of air, and turned to look at him. As much as she wanted to remain strong, she couldn't. As soon as she looked at her old partner she knew. "I don't know what to do," she said, and covered her face with both bloodied hands as the tears started. "This is my fault... all my fault."

Henry stepped forward, cupped the back of her neck with his right hand and pulled her forward into a hug. "This's not your fault, Karen," he said, feeling her tremors, and the exhaustion that followed a crisis. He guided her toward the sofa, and sat beside her as she collected herself.

Henry folded his fingers together, rested his elbows on his knees and, like Karen, tried to stay focused. He looked at her and met red puffy eyes. "You're going to put Lassiter in charge, then you're going to have two uniforms escort you and your family to protective custody until we find the person or persons responsible."

"What are you going to do?" She looked at him, and saw without acknowledging it, his exhaustion and worry.

"I'm going to find my son." Henry stood and walked toward the door.

"I'm sorry," Karen said, and looked at the sleeves of her bloodied blouse. "I should have believed him." She hastily wiped the tears from her cheeks.

Henry clenched his jaw and nodded. "Me too." He opened the door, and motioned toward Gus to follow. They would give their statement later.

 **Chapter 10**

The Psych office was a mass of post-it-notes, printed web documents of newspaper articles, obituaries, Facebook pages, and updates from the Eastwood case. Shawn had highlighted, folded, made notations, and placed question marks on names, places, and curiosities that only he found intriguing.

Henry entered the office, took a deep breath, and then rubbed the top of his head. He recognized Shawn's thought process, after all, he'd trained him, but what Henry couldn't do—and had never been able to do, was keep up. While Henry needed order and deadlines, Shawn needed space and chaos.

"We should start with the trial," Gus said. He walked toward the glass erase board covered in Shawn's notes. Despite trying to sound strong and determined, Gus' hands still shook, sweat dampened the back of his collar, and he jumped when he heard something he didn't recognize.

Henry nodded and watched as Gus picked up papers and tried to make sense of Shawn's thought process. "You alright, son?"

Gus looked up, nodded, and returned his gaze to the piles of paperwork. He should have been here, he should have been listening when Shawn went on and on about Eastwood's trial, when he was convinced he was on the right track... when nobody was there to listen as the pieces Shawn found slowly fell together. _Not much of a friend_ , Gus shook his head and the said aloud, "N _ot much of a friend at all_."

Henry stepped forward, grasped Gus' shoulder and squeezed. "We'll find him." He walked to Shawn's desk and started sifting through mounds of paper. Gus quickly followed.

It was hours later, the sun had set, and now the overhead lights and lamps illuminated the office. Gus and Henry had organized Shawn's notes, categorized them by subject, name, location, and affiliation. Henry looked up from the chair by the bay window when Lassiter walked in with a tray of coffees and sandwiches. His hair was disheveled, clothing wrinkled, shoes scuffed, and stubble adorned his features. He still wore the same clothes from two days prior.

Henry clenched his jaw as Lassiter took a seat on the opposite chair while Gus continued to try and think like Shawn. "What happened?" Henry gripped the paperwork as his heart started to race.

Lassiter rubbed the back of his neck and removed one of the coffees from the tray. "Chief is in protective custody—the feds flew her and her husband out of California to a location unknown to us. Buzz…" he paused, and took a deep breath, "came out of surgery an hour ago—doctors still aren't sure if he'll make it."

Henry sighed then leaned back.

"Detective—Juliet, is at the court house—there was an explosion in Judge Kay's quarters—three dead, including the judge." Lassiter leaned forward, rubbed his face and then looked toward Henry. "Feds are looking into Eastwood, but they don't know where to start—you said this morning that Shawn said something about Eastwood's mother—"

"Melinda Mosby," Gus said, and moved toward Shawn's desk to grab the pile of papers that mentioned her.

"He thinks she hired a hit—Gus and I are trying to find out who."

Lassiter nodded and took a pull of hot coffee from the container. "I'll never admit to this," he got to his feet and walked toward the glass eraser board and looked at the names and destinies of those who had been lost over the years, "but I think Shawn was on the right track." He looked toward Henry. "Shawn's bike had a bullet hole in the rear tire as well as the gas tank—it wasn't a hit and run as reported."

Henry clenched his jaw and looked at Lassiter. "Any blood on scene?" He stood, feeling the need to move, to shift, to not sit still. He rubbed his brow and paced, and moved between Gus' and Shawn's desk. Anxiety sped through his bloodstream, and his heart constricted when he thought about the possibilities.

"A little, but they're still running samples."

"This should have been done hours ago!" Henry snapped.

"We've had a busy day," Lassiter challenged.

Henry sighed, took a deep breath and closed his eyes, willing himself to slow down.

Lassiter motioned for Gus to hand him the papers with the information about Eastwood's mother and started to skim through the pages. He looked up at Henry and Gus as they each took a coffee. Appetites gone, they left the sandwiches alone. "How did he know Eastwood's mother hired a hit?" he looked up and met Gus' eyes.

"Psychic—"

Lassiter shook his head before Gus could finish. "Let's cut the bullshit. Spencer has an eidetic memory—" he raised his eyebrows and looked toward Henry, "and... as much as it pains me to admit it—he probably scores off the charts when it comes to logic tests," he cocked his head and shrugged, "as well as off the charts for ADHD, but he's no more psychic that I am—otherwise he never would have gotten on that damn bike of his."

Henry took a deep breath.

Gus swallowed.

"I'm not telling anyone, but if we're going to find him, I want you both to be on the up-and-up with me—not trying to hide this while we're trying to locate him." Lassiter took another pull from his coffee. He sighed, scratched the back of his head and then took a deep breath. "He saved the chief's life," he met Henry's eyes, "he's the one that told Buzz to stick with her... and damn it, if Buzz didn't."

Henry nodded appreciably toward him. "Thank you."

"Let me help you find him." Lassiter clenched his jaw, and looked between Gus and Henry, and said, "So, who is Mrs. Melinda Mosby?"

Shawn had felt the impact of the first bullet when it hit his rear tire. And like an ice skate, the rear of the bike shifted right, when two more bullets struck, the first hit his left thigh just above his knee, and the other his gas tank before he lost control. The front wheel shifted left and right franticly, and Shawn fell left, hitting the pavement and skidding across it while his bike flipped and veered across the road and came to rest in the ditch, its wheels still spinning, and the smell of gasoline permeating the smell in the air. Shawn knew once he hit the pavement that his left shoulder was either broken or dislocated, and the palms of his hands were imbedded with gravel as was the left side of his ribcage and arm. He had finally come to a rest near the fog line.

Everything hurt, this thigh roared as the bullet wound made itself known, and blood continued to spill, soaking his pants and the dirt beneath him. He gasped, as the pain in his shoulder flared when he tried to move. As he fought for breath, he heard the roar of an engine, but never noticed the lights. Tires moved slowly over pavement, snapping and crushing broken taillights, and crunched against the gravel.

Shawn sighed, and tried to control his breathing as the pain continued to mount. He looked right, as the crunch footsteps against gravel grated. He could hear the chorus of an old Beetles tune in the distance.

Someone grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and jacket, and tossed him onto his belly. Shawn tried to protest, but only succeeded in fighting for air. His hands were pulled behind his back and zip-tied. His assailant grabbed his right arm, drug him toward a black dodge pickup and tossed him into the back bed like a bag of potatoes. His ankles were then tied as well.

"Don't bleed out," the man said, his accent heavy and voice rough. "I don't get paid for you to die." The tailgate was slammed shut, door to the truck closed and the Beetles tune faded. Shawn rolled slightly forward as the truck was slipped into gear and the gas pressed.

He could feel every pothole, every turn taken at too high a speed, and the transition from pavement to gravel to dirt roads. He could feel his heart race, a deep-set chill had settled into his bones, and oxygen starved lungs caused him to fade in and out of consciousness. He sighed as the truck was parked. He heard the engine stop, the driver's side door was opened, then shut, and the weight of the stranger walking across the gravel caused Shawn's muscles to tighten.

For a moment, everything stopped.

The tailgate was opened and lowered and the stranger reached for Shawn's left arm and started to pull him from the bed.

Shawn screamed, his injured arm flared, and every nerve ignited. "Stop! Please!" He gasped and struggled for breath when the man released his arm. Still laying on the tailgate, he felt his feet cut free of the zip ties, his helmet pulled from his head and tossed into the brush. "I'm okay," he muttered, "I'm okay, I'm okay... I'm okay."

The man chuckled, grabbed the front of Shawn's jacket, pulled him up and shifted him over his shoulder, and walked toward the small cabin. It was surrounded by trees, and the sound of water running could be heard in the distance.

Shawn groaned, and fought his nausea. The lights of the cabin were flipped on, and the stranger walked across the main floor, opened the door to the bathroom, shoved Shawn off his shoulder between the shower and pedestal sink. He landed harshly on the floor with a yelp of pain. The stranger, dressed in black fatigues, broad shouldered, and well over six feet in height, looked down at Shawn, then pulled his knife from his belt.

The bathroom light glistened off the long blade and Shawn swallowed as the stranger drew near, grabbed Shawn's jacket and manhandled him onto his belly. Shawn's hands were cut free, and the stranger stepped back, grabbed a towel from the shelf next to the door and tossed it at him.

"Bind your wound," he said, and then slammed the door behind him as he left.

Shawn gasped, and tried to recapture some of the oxygen he had been deprived of. His head swam, nausea caused his mouth to water and he spit, while still lying on the tiled bathroom floor. Pain radiated from his shoulder down to his fingers. His arm was useless and the bullet wound to his thigh continued to seep. Laying on his right side, he awkwardly grabbed the towel and carefully placed it over the wound. With what little energy he had left, he tucked the towel around the injury, and lay back against the short incline to the shower and closed his eyes.

He thought about his father, his mother, Gus, the mistakes he had made throughout his life, the people he had hurt, and those he had lost. Tears slipped past closed eyelids, dampened dark lashes, and slipped down the side of his face toward his ears. It was clearer now, and perhaps his over-the-top antics tarnished his believability. And, maybe his dad had been right, once again, about the choices and actions he made in order to gain the attention of those around him.

But that was all he had. Despite the antics, the irreverence, the notable chaos he thrived in, that was him—he had spent his childhood being serious, being told how to act, what to look for, answer questions about hats in the room, or shoes with laces, and to look for the things nobody else could see. And when it got too serious, humor, old movies, and pop culture got him through the worst of it.

Shawn was unconscious when the stranger entered again, this time to use the toilet. He flushed, washed his hands and took a moment to look at that man lying motionless on the floor. Without a word, he left the bathroom, left the door open and went back to work.

It was dawn when the stranger entered the bathroom again, this time, he nudged Shawn's thigh with the toe of his boot. When he didn't get a response, he grabbed the front of Shawn's jacket and started to drag him from the bathroom. Shawn groaned, reached with his right hand and grabbed the stranger's wrist. He tried kicking out with his right leg, but exhaustion, dehydration, blood loss, and severe pain had left him too weak to fight.

"Don't do this, man," Shawn said, as he felt the rough floor at his backside. He let his hand drop to his chest once the stranger released him. Shawn watched him walk across the room and retrieve zip ties from a black duffle he kept on the narrow bed. "Don't tie me up." He tried to push himself up, but paused once he managed to get his right elbow beneath him. The world spun, and for a moment, everything went black, and he slumped back to the ground. "Dude, I can't even walk—jus' let me lay here an' I promise... promise not to move."

The stranger ignored him and grabbed Shawn by the collar of his jacket and shoved him against the support beam next to the bed. Shawn gasped, and fought his growing nausea, and the relentless pain from his shoulder and thigh. He cried out when his left arm was grabbed and both hands zip tied and hooked above his head.

Shawn fought for breath, and rested his head against the wood beam. He ignored the spinning of rafters, windows, and doors. "This doesn't make sense," he said, and kept his eyes closed, "why didn't... why didn't you jus' kill me?" He shivered when a chill encroached.

The stranger grabbed a wash cloth from the bathroom, and the duct tape from his duffle bag and knelt beside Shawn's left thigh. The stranger never said a word, instead, glanced from the computer monitors that hung above a desk across from the bed. He listened to the receivers, volume on low, just loud enough for him to hear phone conversations, police dispatches, and private conversations coming from bedrooms, offices, and dinner tables. He pulled the towel off Shawn's thigh, winced at the redness, swelling, and the amount of blood. He ripped Shawn's pant leg from knee to pocket, exposing the wound and blue boxers, and ignored the whimpers coming from his victim. The stranger placed the wash cloth over the wound, and then duct taped it into place.

"You're lucky you're not dead," the stranger said. "I told you to bind that wound." He stood, grabbed a fresh towel from his duffle, clothes, and then entered the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. The sound of the shower started and steam slipped past the top of the door.

Shawn caught his breath, clenched his jaw and tried to focus on his surroundings. There were nine monitors, all displaying images of places he had seen or been. And for a moment, his breath hitched when he spotted his father, the chief and officers he knew—though he couldn't hear them, he could tell they were discussing something intensely. Henry looked annoyed... and worried. Even Gus looked stressed, as he paced back and forth in the chief's office while Henry sat in one of the chairs by her desk.

There was nothing Shawn could do. He couldn't call his dad, plead with him to believe him. He couldn't prove to the police what he had learned. He couldn't throw pineapple slushies at Gus in hopes that the information he had found would prove he had been right.

And because he'd portrayed himself as a fool—a psychic without an avenue to connect—a son who had taken what he had been given for granted, and a friend who had ignored the warnings — he was stuck here without an avenue for escape.

Shawn listened as the shower was shut off. The bathroom door opened, and the stranger exited, wiping his head with a towel as the steam billowed around him. Freshly dressed in black fatigues.

Shawn swallowed. "You're Nichols Hammatz."

Hammatz did not turn to look at him, but instead moved to his desk and checked the receivers.

"You were hired," Shawn paused, and rode out a wave of pain, "you were hired to kill those involved in the Eastwood trial—dude—you don't have to do this." He struggled, as he watched his father, his best friend, and those he considered colleagues move throughout the station without understanding who was watching. "You can stop now—nobody will ever know—please—"

Hammatz stood, walked across the room, grabbed his long rifle, slipped it over his shoulder and then grabbed his keys from the edge of the desk before walking out the front door. He slammed it shut behind him.

Shawn sighed, caught his breath, and leaned his head against the support beam. He watched the monitors, and though he tried to listen to the voices and conversations happening over the receivers, he couldn't hear past his harsh breathing or the sound of his heart thumping against his chest.

He wasn't sure how long it was before he caught sight of the monitors, and he watched in horror as the parking lot of the Santa Barbara Police Department became a war zone. He watched those he cared about scramble for cover, he watched his father fall behind his truck, and he watched Buzz take a bullet to his chest in an effort to keep the chief safe. Shawn focused on the old Ford his father had been so fond of. He watched and waited for any sign that Henry had not been hit.

"Come on, dad... get up," Shawn said. He watched the screen, waited and hoped for a sign of life. "Please."

The sign never came.

Shawn closed his eyes, and let his tears fall.

 **Chapter 11**

Henry threw the cup he had been holding across the room and sighed when it shattered against the drywall. Repainting was a sacrifice he was willing to make. He ran his hand over his face, scratched the top of his head and then leaned against his son's desk.

The information was there, how to decipher it was another matter altogether. He knew Shawn could connect the dots nobody else could, and Henry knew Shawn could see the details at any time without understanding their importance until the irregular pieces could be placed in order, like a puzzle, when the timing was just right. Henry looked and met Gus' eyes as he sat on the chair by the window, looking for clues that he knew he would never find.

They had been at it for 14 hours. Fourteen hours of research, data collection, and trying to understand how Shawn might think. Lassiter had removed his jacket, pulled the tails of his shirt from the confines of his belt and continued to evaluate person after person, location after location, and clue after clue. He may have been the butt of many of Shawn's jokes, but Henry had to admit, Lassiter was full blown detective, and a damn good one.

Updates had come in about Buzz, he was still listed as critical, but was holding his own. O'Hara had provided updates on the bombing, and though she was still getting her feet wet as a detective, she was proving herself to be insightful, dependable, and a damn good cop.

Lassiter sighed, rolled his head, trying to loosen the muscles of his neck. He grabbed the pile of Facebook pages that Shawn had printed and written on, and slowly started to flip through them. They had all looked at the images of Eastwood's mother, the socialite with a propensity for popularity. She wore glamorous clothing, wore expensive jewelry, and loved a good glass of wine.

"It's her," Lassiter said. He shook his head and looked toward Henry. "But how, and who would she connect with in order to put a hit on the jury, judge, and arresting officer?"

"We've been asking that all night," Gus said. He leaned forward he scratched the back of his neck.

"Maybe we didn't go back far enough?" Lassiter said. He tossed the papers onto the floor. "In order to accomplish something like this…" he took a deep breath and sighed, "it takes time, years—these hits have come and gone without anyone knowing—without anyone anticipating. This woman hasn't been putting the names of her victims on bulletin boards or headlines in newspapers—"

"She's calculated," Henry shrugged, "we know that."

"So why now?" Lassiter challenged. "An explosion? Turning the parking lot into a war zone?" He shrugged and looked at the eraser board behind him. "Why the attention now?"

Gus shook his head and got to his feet. "We've already been over this," he said, and moved toward the coffee pot for more java.

Henry stood, crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. He looked at Lassiter as he continued to evaluate the situation.

"Every year she celebrates her son's birthday—pictures, cake, friends—she even posts comments on his behalf to his Facebook page—like he's still alive. You don't do that without having the patients of a saint or having entered the gates of crazy-town, she's been planning this, taking her time—"

"But why?" Gus challenged. "Why now and why the change in how the hits are being done?" He leaned against the counter and took a sip from his coffee.

"Maybe she's dying?" Lassiter said.

"Or her hitman is?" Henry looked toward Lassiter. "If she was dying—everyone would know—she's too narcissistic not to let that happen. Her hitman, however, doesn't get paid until the job's done."

"Still leaves us where we started," Gus said. "No idea of who he—or she, is."

"When was the first juror killed?" Lassiter asked.

"Six months after Eastwood's death," Gus said. He grabbed the file with the juror's obituaries.

"That's our starting point," Lassiter said. "Anyone she had contact with after the death of her son and before the death of the first juror."

"The first juror was Timothy Reynolds—he was 68," Gus looked up, "and by his picture I'm going to assume he loved his bacon and eggs." He raised his eyebrows. "He died of heart attack."

"The hit man wouldn't have known that," Henry said, "and Melinda Mosby doesn't seem to be the type to care how someone died—just that they did."

Gus tossed the file he had been holding on the floor, and navigated his way toward his desk. Though the room had been in a state of chaos when they entered, it was now a state of ordered chaos that Henry, and Lassiter could understand. How Shawn figured this out in the short time that he had, had everyone scratching their heads, but they couldn't focus on that now. Now they had to find Shawn, or risk losing more than their psychic resident.

Gus took a seat at his computer and searched the web pages that Shawn had found, he felt the presence of Henry behind him, and eventually Lassiter as they both peered over his shoulders seeking answers that were there, just well hidden.

"Who's that?" Henry asked, causing Gus to pause and flip back a page.

"Ray Colles," Gus said, "watch designer—he does a lot of stuff for athletes." He flipped through a few more pages until Lassiter grabbed his shoulder and ordered him to stop.

The image was of a dinner party at a lavish restaurant. Melinda Mosby sat in the center, smiling and exposing the red ruby ring on her finger. She was surrounded by men and women, all looking just as lavish with overdone makeup, evening gowns and tuxedos. Lassiter lowered himself to get a better look at the image. Gus moved back and waited.

"I've seen him." Lassiter pointed toward the man at the end of the image, holding a glass a Champaign, smiling with his arm over the shoulder of woman with red hair. The man was large, built like someone who took time in the gym, and respected the human body. Dark hair, olive colored skin, and a tattoo on his neck partially hidden by the collar of his shirt.

"Lassiter?" Henry said. He felt his heart start to race, as adrenalin kicked in.

Gus moved back in front of his computer and scrolled down the page. He listed off the names of those around the table. Some were familiar, designers, friends of Melinda, others were relatively unknown.

Lassiter scratched his brow, still looking at the image, and trying to place the face.

"Nichols Hammatz," Gus said. "He's the husband of one of Melinda's designers."

"What do we know about him?" Henry asked, and looked from Gus to Lassiter and then to the computer, hoping for answers. He crossed his arms over his chest and started to chew on the nail of his left thumb. He watched Gus type Hammatz's name into the search engine and waited for the results.

Lassiter stood back, looked at the random images, some of relevance, others not. He paused a moment, hitched his breath, and tilted his head to the right. "This is the asshole who changed the lighting at the station seven or eight months ago." He smiled, catching the images of Hammaz. "Facebook." Lassiter smiled. "An idiot's worst nightmare and a cop's best friend." He pointed to the image on the screen. "Click that."

Gus did, and the image took him to Buzz McNab's Facebook page. Images of the station appeared the day the lighting had been changed, and there, on a ladder stood Nichols Hammatz being scolded by Lassiter for dropping his screwdriver on Lassiter's desk.

Lassiter ignored the snarky comments below, pulled out his personal cell phone and started making calls. His voice echoed, demanding to know who the electrician had contracted with, his name—and alias, the hours he had worked and whether or not he had done any electrical work at the Judge's chambers. He also demanded an address, phone number, and identifications.

Gus continued to search the web. Henry continued to listen as Lassiter made call after call, demanding answers.

 **Chapter 12**

Hammatz sat at his desk, eating a bowl of oatmeal while he transferred funds from one account to another. The receivers relayed unimportant information, while the screens showed much of the same. Despite the fact that officers at the station continued to work diligently, Hammatz failed to realize they were no longer using their work phones.

Shawn, growing weaker, struggled to stay awake. Breathing was becoming more difficult, and his leg continued to burn. A chill had settled into his bones, and though he tried to fight it, muscles spasmed and bones ached. Sweat collected on his brow and damped his hair. And while he felt cold, he craved water, fought nausea, all the while a fever continued to burn.

Shawn noticed the activities on the screens change. He could see Jules giving orders, finger pointed toward officers, while she spoke on a phone that Hammatz didn't have access to. Hammatz noticed it too. He flipped his receiver's station and tried to locate O'Hara's call, what was being said, and who to. He turned suddenly, and looked at Shawn.

Very little had been said between them, and very little attention had been paid toward Shawn for reasons he didn't understand. But now, Hammatz stared at him, brown eyes ablaze, jaw clenched, and lips pursed into a thin line.

Whatever this had been, was now over. Shawn felt his heart race and pulse quicken. Hammatz looked through him, not at him. The realization was now reality. Shawn looked passed him, watched as the computer screen saver exposed the images of two children, girls, both laughing while wearing yellow bows in their hair, braces on their teeth. Twins. The picture had been taken in someone's backyard. A swing set was in the background, and well-manicured rose bushes lined the rustic fence in the background. A road sign was evident, blurry at best, but Shawn made out the German word for Sport, written in red and above an athlete finishing a marathon.

Shawn clenched his jaw, caught his breath, and fought the need to rest. "Those your girls?" he said, and looked for Hammatz's response.

The man turned in his chair and looked at the computer screen, tilted his head and smile. "Yes," he said, and then closed the laptop.

"Eastwood's mother hired you." Shawn swallowed the bile collecting at his throat. Muscles were growing heavy, and while he prided himself of his awareness, everything was a blur.

Hammatz stood, unplugged the computer monitors, the receivers, and then shoved his computer into a small case that had been tucked beneath the desk. "You'll die here," he said, his accent thick. There wasn't a rush to his words, just matter of fact.

Shawn closed his eyes and thought about his dad, about Gus, and all the opportunities he had missed because of his lack of focus.

"I was not paid to kill you," Hammatz said, and walked toward the bed to grab his duffle bag. He shoved a few items of clothing into the duffle, tossed his notebook, and toiletries and then his computer bag. Everything fit, leaving just enough room for last minute items he would grab at the convenience store. "I was contracted to kill those that killed her son." He looked up and met Shawn's gaze. "It may not mean much to you—but I don't kill unless paid for it." He shrugged, slipped the shoulder strap of the duffle over his shoulder. "You wonder," he raised his eyebrows, "why?"

Shawn had a difficult time focusing. He could hear the words, understood there meaning, but didn't apply them to the knowledge he had. He swallowed again, leaned back against the support beam and sighed.

"I will leave here, go home to my family, and die," Hammatz squatted in front of Shawn, grabbed his chin, and forced him to look at him. "Vick—she was lucky to have you looking out for her," he released Shawn's chin and stood, "otherwise, she'd be dead now too." He turned toward the desk, grabbed his phone and dialed a number.

Henry paced. The sun was beginning to make an appearance, and a few joggers were heard outside, their tennis shoes, and fanny packs, slapping butts and pavement with even and purpose filled strides. The sound of the water slapping the beach—though calming—did little to ease Henry's fraying nerves. They were moving onto 20 hours since Shawn had disappeared. Twenty hours of not knowing if he was even alive. Though Henry knew he needed to call his ex-wife, he couldn't bring himself to do it, not until he knew, not until he had a final resolution.

They were all exhausted, and yet, Gus and Lassiter continued to work, doing their best to make sense of an impossible situation. Officers and O'Hara continued to analyze the bombing, hoping something would come of the evidence, of the person responsible for all their heartache. Hoping against hope that something would lead them to a break in the case.

Lassiter slumped against the wall, rested back and stared up at the ceiling. He jumped when his police issued cell phone rang.

Hammatz heard the sharp " _Not on this phone!"_ come across the phone line. He shook his head, looked toward Shawn and said, "Detective Lassiter?"

" _Yes_."

"1515 North Banter Road." Hammatz hung up, tossed the phone to the bed and looked one last time at Shawn. "Don't die before they get here." He grabbed his keys, opened the door and left.

Shawn still hooked to the nail, slumped slightly to his left, and lost consciousness.

"1515 North Banter Road," Lassiter said into the phone. "Who is this?" He looked at his phone and then up at Henry who had grabbed his keys and was headed toward the door. Gus followed. "Wait!" Lassiter said and followed them out the door and rushed toward the parking lot. "We don't know if this means anything!"

Henry opened the door to his truck and looked at Lassiter. "I can't—" he said, "I can't sit here anymore and try and figure out what my son had figured out hours ago. I can't go on waiting for someone else to tell me!" He watched Gus slip into the passenger seat. "If this is a dead end," Henry shrugged, "then I'll be back and we can start again—but in the meantime, this fish has been hooked, Lassiter, and I intend to find out where this leads."

"It could be a trap, Henry." Lassiter shook his head and sighed. "You need to let me do my job—if Shawn is out there—we'll find him—buy you can't run off halfcocked not knowing what is behind that address—hell, it could be nothing!"

"This is my son we're talking about!"

"I know, and right now he needs every resource available to get him home." Lassiter ran his fingers over his head and shrugged. "You're not thinking right!"

Henry nodded, he knew he wasn't, but he also knew he couldn't stay at the office, stare at papers that did little but produce more confusion. "I'm willing to take that chance."

"I shouldn't let you go."

"You can't stop me."

Lassiter nodded, stepped back and said, "Let's take my car—I have a siren, we'll get there faster." He waited for Henry to acknowledge him before he jogged toward his vehicle. He tossed Gus, who followed his cell and ordered him to call O'Hara with the update. While Gus slipped into the backseat, Henry slipped into the passenger seat and Lassiter drove.

No matter how fast they went, it wasn't fast enough. Cars moved to the right as the lights from the unmarked car flashed and the siren sounded. He honked a few times as those not paying attention were slow to move to the side. Henry gripped his seatbelt and rubbed his forehead, and wished everything to end. He counterbalanced his weight as Lassiter took a hard right, hit the gas and headed toward the wildlife refuge.

Hearts were on fire, exhaustion replaced with adrenalin, while fear was kept at bay with the hope they'd find him alive. Lassiter took another hard right, and then a left on Banter Road. He slowed just enough to read the blue and white address reflector as they got closer to the 1515 posting.

Henry had the door open before the Lassiter could bring the car to a stop at the end of the gravel drive. Despite Henry's 30 plus years on the force, and despite knowing what should and shouldn't be done, the instincts of a parent kicked in.

Lassiter slammed on the brakes, put the car into park and was out the door while the engine still ran. He turned and looked toward Gus. "Do not move!" He turned and ran for Henry.

Lassiter grabbed Henry's shoulder and pulled him to a stop, grabbed his arm and forced him to pause a moment. He pushed him off the road and out of sight of the cabin. "You are putting my life, your life, Gus' life, and if Shawn is in there—his life at risk, by acting like a fool!" He pushed him back.

Henry clenched his jaw and looked toward the small cabin nestled neatly in the alcove of spruce and oak trees. "Shawn could be in there," he said.

"So can the asshole who took him," Lassiter said, and clenched his jaw and looked at Henry with compassion. "There's more at risk here, Henry—a lot more, and if something happens because I failed to do my duty—I have to live with that—this," he motioned toward the car and the cabin, "could end my career—I want to find Shawn too, but I'm not going to put our lives on the line to do it." He sighed and said, "Remember who we're dealing with—the man bombed the judge's chambers at the court house—he opened fire on police officers in broad daylight—knowing he wouldn't get caught."

Henry stood back, both shocked by Lassiter's words as well as understanding of them. "I need to know."

"Then follow my lead." He waited for Henry to acknowledge him before he pulled his service weapon, held it in the ready position and slowly made his way toward the cabin.

There wasn't a soul in sight, just the evidence that someone had indeed been there. While the sun's rays reflected off the glass of the windows, Lassiter moved forward, despite knowing he was wrong and at risk for doing it. He could hear the rustling of bushes as deer moved up from the creek, while the chirping of squirrels and birds echoed. He could feel his heart pound against his chest, both fearing what he knew and what he didn't know. He moved to the side, looked in through a window and nodded toward Henry before taking the steps to the front door. Gun raised, senses on alert, he twisted the door-handle and paused before pushing it open.

Henry swallowed, standing just two steps behind, he closed his eyes and said a quick prayer.

Lassiter pushed the door open, clenched his jaw, and stood to the side as Henry pushed passed him. Lassiter pulled his cell from his pocket and dialed 911.

"No, no, no, no, no," Henry muttered, as he fell to his knees next to Shawn. Henry slipped his right arm beneath Shawn's shoulders to alleviate the pressure from his wrists, his head lolled back and rested in the bend of Henry's arm. Hesitantly, Henry held his breath and pressed two fingers against Shawn's throat, and waited. "Please... come on, Shawn, don't do this... don't do this."

Lassiter clenched his jaw and walked toward them. He squatted and cut the zip ties holding Shawn up with his pocket knife.

Shawn's hands fell free and he slumped boneless against his father.

Henry clenched his jaw, flared his nostrils, pursed his lip, and felt his heart leap though the thin skin of his chest. Henry gasped, choked back a sob, and then pressed his forehead to his son's. "God, kid," he said, "I'm here, Shawn." He moved back, carefully lowered Shawn to the floor and took inventory of what needed to be done before the paramedics arrived.

"He alive?" Lassiter asked, defeated, exhausted, and fearing for Henry.

Henry nodded, wiped his face with his hands and motioned for the pillows on the bed. "We should get his feet up—hand me a blanket too." He pressed his palm to Shawn's right cheek. "Come on, Shawn, you're stronger than this—hang on."

Lassiter stood and grabbed a pillow and before he could do anything to help, Henry grabbed it from him and slipped it beneath Shawn's calves. Lassiter pulled a blanket off the bed and again, Henry pulled it from him and gently lay it over his son.

Squatting, Lassiter reached across Shawn and grasped Henry's shoulder and squeezed. "Paramedics are on their way." He pressed his fingers to Spencer's throat, clenched his jaw, and sighed.

Henry nodded and wiped Shawn's brow. "He's barely breathing."

Lassiter looked up as Gus stepped through the threshold, sighed, and leaned against the doorframe as he looked toward them. Lassiter nodded toward him, but kept quiet. There wasn't anything that could be said to ease the worry of a concerned father, nor the fears of a best friend. Gus, who always had an answer or an explanation, stood dumbfounded, eyes wide, chin trembling. Lassiter stood with a sigh, walked passed Henry, gripped Gus' shoulder and walked out the door. He would wait and direct the paramedics when they arrived, and he hoped they arrived on time.

Gus took a step forward, as Henry shifted from a kneeling position to a seated one and gripped his son's hand and rubbed the webbing between Shawn's finger and thumb of his left hand. Gus was afraid to move, the moment to brittle to transition while a life hung in the balance. Moments froze, as he watched Henry run his hand gently over Shawn's brow and encouraged him to breathe, and survive. Nothing else mattered, not now, not ever. The little things, the annoying habits they each shared, and the bad decisions they each had made over the years were now forgotten, but most importantly, they were forgiven.

Henry had never been soft. He had never allowed his son—nor anyone else—to see him cry. It had been questionable to his capability of even doing so. And yet, here he was, nearly broken as he waited for paramedics to arrive and do what he couldn't.

Save Shawn.

Unlike before, all the times before, when Shawn had gotten himself into trouble, Henry had been there—in some way—to pull him free. It may have not been his physical presence, but his teachings, and knowledge had in many regards stuck with Shawn, and because of it, he was able to problem solve, and think quicker than most. And, it was because of those teachings that Shawn was now in the situation he was in. Fighting for his life because he had solved the case and nobody had stood back and listened—not until it was too late.

Gus, still frozen in place, watched as the paramedics rushed the room. Henry was pushed back, Lassiter moving between Henry and the actions of those trying to save his son. Henry and Gus watched the frantic, but trained movements, as they inserted an IV, and spoke with organized precision into their radios, informing the hospital of what was headed their way.

"30-year-old male… gunshot wound to the left thigh—badly infected… possible broken—or dislocated left shoulder… contusions... respiratory failure… possible septic shock…"

Gus could hear the words and their meanings stabbed his gut like a dagger. He watched as Shawn was intubated, the Ambu bag squeezed and released, he was placed on the bright orange backboard, lifted onto the gurney, and wheeled in a rushed fashion toward the awaiting ambulance. Gus followed numbly. Henry jogged to keep up. He made a motion to get into the back of the ambulance, but Lassiter pulled him back—said something about letting them do their jobs and following.

"You coming?" Lassiter said, looking toward Gus.

Gus nodded. Watched Lassiter say something to the detectives who would oversee the crime scene, and then guided Henry toward his car.

Gus followed.

 **Chapter 13**

Mercy General was a good hospital, and they had tried—at one time—to improve their waiting areas, but the burgundy fabric and faux wood frames, yellowed images of landscapes, and Good Housekeeping Magazines, did little to provide comfort to those waiting. Once Shawn arrived at the ER he was immediately transported to pre-op, where they worked to stabilize him before emergency surgery. Henry, Gus and the others were escorted to a private waiting room outside of the OR. Even the private rooms needed work. The lighting was dim, chairs—though comfortable—did little to comfort, the off-white walls, lackluster artwork, and the coffee—made hours earlier—provided nothing more than a room to wait.

Henry sat by the door, jumping every time someone walked past, hoping and praying for news. Gus sat in the room with him, staring at the floor and the cream swirled pattern imbedded within the chocolate toned carpet. His mother and father sat next to him, his mother rubbed his back, offering what little comfort she could. His father, ever diligent, refreshed coffees, creamers, and retrieved snacks whenever he thought it necessary—and more frequently than needed.

Lassiter waited in the larger waiting room down the hall, working diligently on the case and searching for answers he feared wouldn't come. O'Hara had joined him, and thanked colleagues as they stopped by to visit Buzz and to check on Shawn's status. The word had spread. And though Shawn and Gus both were known as nontraditional in the field of psychic phenomena, they had over the past 12 months proven themselves to be qualified members of the Santa Barbara Police Department. Badges, training, and uniforms aside, it was their drive and success at solving cases that had earned them both the respect of those in blue. And when one went down, they all did.

Henry heard the doors to the OR open and he stood again, nervously shifted his feet and clenched his jaw. It had been over eight hours.

Dr. Olaf McFearson entered the small waiting room. "Mr. Spencer?" He looked up from his clipboard, his parrot nose, narrow chin, bushy eyebrows and large brown eyes, caught Henry's. Dr. McFearson had a high-pitched voice, white hair, and he stood nearly six feet in height. He was thin, and Henry deducted from callused hands and tanned features, that he played golf on the weekends.

"Yes," Henry said, "how's my son?"

Gus stood as well, wanting to hear, despite the doctor's hesitancy to say anything while Gus and his parents stood by.

"They're family," Henry said.

Dr. McFearson nodded and spoke in a matter of fact, medically educated, and over the heads of those in the room. Though Gus followed most of what was said, exhaustion was taking its toll. Henry heard words like "infection, elevated temperature, debrided, reduced, respiratory failure and cerebral hypoxia." But repeating anything the doctor said would be impossible. The only thing Henry wanted to do was see Shawn, make sure he was okay, sit in a chair and relax. He felt the doctor grab his arm, tug slightly, and Henry looked up.

"Your son has been moved to ICU." Dr. McFearson, looked at Henry to make sure he understood. "He's on a ventilator until the infection is controlled." He met Henry's eyes and nodded. He looked toward Gus and his parents. "I know this has been an overwhelming ordeal, but, I think you should all go home—get some rest—"

"No," came the duel response from Gus and Henry.

Henry shook his head. "I need to see Shawn."

Dr. McFearson nodded and motioned for Henry to follow. Gus made a motion to go, but a hand to his shoulder stopped him. He turned and looked toward his mother who shook her head.

"Henry needs time," she said, "just wait."

Gus nodded, and hesitantly returned to his seat.

Henry knew how close he had been to losing his son. He knew the moment he entered the cabin, finding Shawn unconscious, motionless, and unresponsive. He knew when his son struggled to breathe, and when the paramedics worked franticly to save his life. The doctor motioned toward the room, and moved to see his other patients, as Henry stood in the doorway, gathered his strength and entered the room.

Henry grabbed a chair, moved it closer to the bed, took a seat, slipped his hands through the guard rails of the bed and grasped Shawn's right arm, above the two IV lines that snaked from two different veins, one on the back of his hand and the other below his thumb at his wrist. Henry gently rubbed Shawn's arm below his elbow. The intubation tube was hooked to oxygen and ran from Shawn's slightly agape mouth, across his cheek and to the respirator on the other side of the bed. His left shoulder had been wrapped and strapped to his chest to immobilize his arm. His left leg was propped with a pillow beneath his knee, the blanket carefully draped around the freshly bandaged wound that hid the ugliness of drain tubes and open wounds.

The room was dark, a low watt bulb illuminated the far corner to the right of Shawn's bed. The vertical blinds, colored the same off white as the rest of the room, blocked any view of the outside. A white board with the handwriting in black dry erase marker listed the names of the on-call nurse's. And despite the metal framed image of sunflowers, the room was sterile and unwelcoming.

Henry gently tugged at the light blue blanket that lay over his son, and carefully maneuvered it around Shawn's exposed thigh. Henry rubbed his face, rested his elbow on the bed, while holding his son's arm.

Henry sighed, reached into his pocket and pulled his cell phone, dialed a number, and placed the phone to his left ear. "Hey," he said, "It's Shawn... it doesn't look good, Maddie." He propped his right elbow on the edge of the bed, phone still pressed to his ear. "We could lose our son." He covered his face with his right hand, and cried.

Henry awoke to the feeling of someone's hand rubbing the back of his right shoulder. He looked up and met Madeline's eyes. She moved behind Henry and toward the head of the bed, ran her fingers over Shawn's brow, pushed back his hair, while gently touching his temple.

"You should have called me sooner," she said, and leaned forward she kissed Shawn's brow, moved to grab another chair, and then took a seat next to Henry.

"I know." Henry released Shawn's arm and leaned back on the seat. He took a deep breath, glanced at the clock and felt tired muscles protest. "I," he paused, looking toward her and then back at Shawn, "I was afraid it would make it all real." He shook his head and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

Madeline nodded. "I spoke with the doctor." She reached for Shawn's arm through the guardrail and gently rubbed the skin at his inner elbow. "He's worried that Shawn wasn't getting enough oxygen—he," she paused and looked at Henry, "he's worried there may be neurological complications." Her eyes watered, but she held strong, blinking them back and fighting the idea that it was a worst-case scenario.

"Brain damage?" Henry frowned. "He never said anything to me—are you sure—he never said—"

"You were exhausted, Henry, exhausted and in shock—I'm surprised you heard much of anything after you found him." She grasped his knee with her right hand and squeezed. "I know you—you forget that I spent nineteen years with you, and I actually learned a lot." She tried to feign a smile, but failed.

"How—when will we know?"

Madeline shrugged, looked back toward her son and said, "Whenever he tells us." She wiped Shawn's cheek with the back of her fingers. "I never expected this for him," she said, and took a deep breath. "I never expected to get a phone call letting me know that my son had been shot—for nineteen years, Henry, I feared it would be you." She turned and looked at him. "I hated every late-night shift you took, I hated hearing the phone ring when you were supposed to be home, and the sounds of sirens at night—I always feared I would get a visit from Chief Hendrix letting me know you'd been hurt—or killed.

"I couldn't take it," she shrugged, "I couldn't handle it anymore—and there weren't enough conferences, or enough trips I could take." She squared her shoulders and looked toward the window as the sun's rays peered in through the blinds of the window. "So I left."

Henry clenched his jaw and kept quiet.

"But now," she said, "I'd give anything… _anything_ ," she choked back a sob, "for you to be in this bed rather than Shawn." A tear slipped down her right cheek. "I had hoped—though I didn't agree with you—that when you arrested him all those years ago that maybe… just maybe he wouldn't choose law enforcement as a career."

Maddie paused and collected her thoughts, as well as her breath as more tears threatened to fall. "I always wanted him to be happy," she sighed, squeezed Shawn's arm and looked toward Henry. Her chin quivered, and more tears fell. "We could lose him, Henry."

Henry reached out and rubbed her back. "Shawn's strong, Maddie, he'll pull through."

"What if he doesn't—what then?" She returned her gaze toward Shawn and took a deep breath. She grasped Henry's hand and squeezed.

They sat in silence for a while, and listened to the respirator pump air in and out of Shawn's lungs, and to the heart monitor beep in a steady rhythm. The sun was up to its full hight, and nurses entered, changed bandages, checked IV lines, and continued to inject sedation fluids into the IV port at Shawn's wrist. Though his fever was down, precautions were being done to prevent another spike.

Madeline stood, stretched her back and leaned over the rail of the bed and kissed her son's forehead. She turned and looked at Henry. "You should go home, get some rest, and get cleaned up, come back in the morning." She pulled the blanket up to Shawn's shoulders and then moved around the bed as the sun started to disappear behind the horizon line. She opened the vertical blinds and looked out toward the city that had been her home for many years.

Henry stood, and moved toward the bed. He took a deep breath, noted the color in Shawn's cheeks, and then looked toward his ex-wife. "I won't be long," he said, and patted his pockets searching for his keys. He sighed when he realized his truck was still at the Psych office. "Gus?" He sighed, and placed his hand over his face. "I forgot—"

"I sent him home when I came in," Madeline said, and tossed her blue cardigan over the chair. "He was exhausted too—and I talked his parents into taking him home." She walked back toward the bed and placed the back of her hand against Shawn's forehead, checking for herself that his fever was indeed coming down. Believing it was, she took a seat, reached into her purse, grabbed the keys to her rental, and tossed them to Henry. "It's the blue Torus parked by the west side entrance near the hospital doors." She then grabbed the book she had been reading and put her purse back on the floor near the left front leg of the chair.

"I won't be long." He clenched the keys into his fist and left the room. He passed the waiting room he and the others had been in for so long. The lights were off, but the sound of someone crying could be heard within the space. Harry clenched his jaw. That could have been him. He came close to being the person who would live longer than his son. Henry swallowed and walked toward the main waiting area.

Gus and Juliet stood when they saw Henry step into the room. They had both taken time to shower, change, eat, and sleep. Though both still looked worried, they looked rested and ready to face another day. Henry nodded toward them, not surprised to see them, and paused.

"How's he doing?" Jules asked, holding her coffee that had cooled, but still warranted an effort to drink.

Henry nodded and then shrugged. "He's," he took a deep breath, "he's putting in a hell of a fight."

"Can we see him?" Gus asked, and looked between Henry and the doors to the ICU.

"You been here long?" Henry looked to Gus.

"Couple hours," Gus shrugged.

Henry raised his eyebrows.

"Six," Gus corrected, "I didn't want to—I just want to make sure he's going to be okay."

Henry gripped Gus' shoulder. "His mother's with him, but go on back. Room 304."

Gus nodded, and moved to walk past.

"Gus," Henry said, and pulled him to a stop. Henry took a deep breath, pursed his lips and sighed. "Don't be surprised when you see him—he's in rough shape."

Gus nodded, took a deep breath, and pushed through the doors.

"Mr. Spencer," Jules said. "How is he, really?" She looked up and met his eyes.

"It's going to be a rough few days," Henry confided. He smiled tightly and made a motion toward the door, but was stopped when Jules called out to him.

"He's going to be fine—you know that right?"

Henry clenched his jaw. "I hope so."

Jules watched him leave through the exit. She took a deep breath, looked toward the doors, and then placed her cold coffee on the end table next to the chair she had been sitting in. She pulled her phone from her purse to call Lassiter to provide him an update on Shawn's condition, as well as find out what was happening with the case.

Gus clenched his jaw, took a moment before he entered the room. The door was open, and he could see through the window, Shawn lying in bed, machines hooked to him, keeping him alive. The blinds were open, allowing the sunset's glow to enter the room. Madeline sat next to the bed, her left hand on Shawn's right forearm, her right keeping the pages of a book open. Gus could tell she wasn't reading, just staring out the window as the pink and orange hues illuminated the clouds.

Gus knocked, and nodded toward her as he entered. "Is it okay?"

Madeline stood, "Of course," she said, and motioned toward the chair to her right. "I thought I would read to him." She shifted and watched Gus take a seat. "Even though he's unconscious…" She shrugged. "I believe he can hear me." She looked toward Gus and gently grasped his shoulder.

Gus nodded. He and Shawn had been best friends longer than most, and it was hard seeing him like this. Gus looked down, and squeezed his fingers. He was nervous, uncertain, and scared. He looked up and met Madeline's eyes and he tried to feign a smile, but it never reached his eyes.

Madeline looked at him, frowned, and asked. "I need to go get some coffee before the cafeteria closes. Can you sit with him until I get back?" She put her book on the small table next to the bed. She leaned over the guard rail, wiped Shawn's brow and then gently kissed his forehead. Moving away, she looked at Gus, grasped his left arm and squeezed. "Talk to him, Gus, he needs to know you're cheering him on."

Gus looked at her and nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

"Would you like me to bring you back anything?"

Gus shook his head, but answered, "Coffee."

Madeline nodded and left the room. She paused a moment at the window looking into the room and watched as Gus slowly took a seat in the chair she had just vacated. She crossed her arms over her chest, looked toward the ceiling, and took a deep breath before walking toward the cafeteria.

Gus sighed. He looked at the cream-colored vinyl flooring, the black flecks looked more like dirt than design and tried to hide what couldn't be washed away. He listened to the rhythmic inhale and exhale of the machine across from him, the lactated ringer bags had been documented with strong antibiotics and hung from a silver pole—hooked to Shawn's arm, feeding him the tools necessary to fight the blood infection that was threatening to take him from them.

It hadn't been the bullet wound, nor the accident on his bike, it was the time it took to find him, the long hours of tying to decipher his chain of thought, the time it took for him to sit, unassisted, while dirt, debris and god knows what else to invade his system while he suffered from exhaustion, dehydration, and blood loss. The infection was what was trying to kill him, an infection that could have been stopped had they found him sooner.

Gus looked up and carefully reached through the guard rails, and placed his hand on Shawn's. His fingers were cold, motionless, and feeling like death. Gus swallowed and tried to keep the lump in his throat at bay. Shawn wasn't motionless, he was perpetually on the move, not much different than the Energizer Bunny. He wasn't quiet either: always thinking, speaking, singing, laughing, and telling inappropriate jokes. And if he didn't have something to keep his mind busy, then he was on the hunt for something to keep his mind busy: hand held games, toys, and hoops for the office.

This wasn't Shawn.

Gus clenched his jaw and rested his elbow on the edge of the bed. No, Shawn didn't sit, sleep, lay down, walk, or run without commentary. Gus gently squeezed Shawn's hand and ran his thumb across his fingers. "Lassiter is running the station like a military base—nobody in or out who doesn't have a badge—and anyone who wants to visit has to sign away their firstborn's right." He looked out the window and watched as the sun slowly disappeared behind the buildings in the distance. "They're nominating Buzz for a commendation."

Gus scratched his head and looked again toward the floor. He jumped, startled as Madeline touched his shoulder, and handed him a coffee.

"Thank you," Gus said, taking the cup after releasing Shawn's hand.

Madeline nodded and gently rubbed the back of his shoulder. "He's still Shawn," she said, and took a seat beside him, "he's in there, just too sick to come out and play." She tried to smile, but couldn't.

"No disrespect, but," Gus shook his head, "I'm not ten anymore... and, the antibiotic cocktail they have him on is pretty powerful."

"I didn't mean it that way, Gus," she said, and then leaned back in her seat. "I missed out on a lot—my fault—I know that, but he's my son... my only child... and I'm just as scared of losing him."

"I know," he nodded and looked toward the floor.

Madeline stood. "He's still Shawn, Gus, don't talk to him like an acquaintance, talk to him like he's your best friend and needs some encouragement." She turned toward the door and placed her hand on the door plate before pausing to look at him. "Admitting he's sick won't make it worse," she sighed, "but ignoring it could." She pushed the door open and left the room.

Gus pulled the protective sleeve off his coffee and wrapped his right hand around it, allowing the heat to penetrate. When he couldn't hold it anymore, he replaced the sleeve, slipped his right hand through the rails and gripped Shawn's hand. "Okay, Shawn, you made a mess at the office, there are Doritos smudges all over your, _and my_ , keyboards. You missed the basketball hoop too many times and garbage is all over the floor—took me 20 minutes just to pick up your papers—"

 **Chapter 14**

Henry rubbed the back of his neck as he listened to the hospital doors swoosh open. The air conditioning hit him as well as the smell of antiseptic cleaners. The visitor's desk was occupied with a young man at his computer. They nodded to each other and as Henry walked past. He could hear the faint sounds of conversations, the slight squeak of wheels in the distance, and the sound of milk being steamed at the coffee shop across from the gift shop.

He had gone home, grabbed a bite of food, took a long hot shower, and changed into some clean clothes: jeans, and a red and white Hawaiian style shirt. He had bypassed his sandals and opted for tennis shoes. He had taken a seat on the sofa, just to collect his thoughts, but fell sleeping for five hours. He was pissed at himself, at Maddie for sending him home, at his truck for needing gas, at the attendant for making him show his ID, but most of all he was mad at Hammaz for putting his son through this, and at himself for not getting there in time.

Henry rode the elevator to the third floor and stepped out. Madeline stood in the waiting room, nursing her coffee while looking out the window toward the ocean in the distance. She could barely see it, just enough for the yellow hues to reflect off the surface as the sun slowly appeared.

It was going to be another long day.

Henry cleared his throat. "Everything okay?" he asked. He stepped beside her and glanced toward the doors leading to the ICU.

Maddie nodded. "I think Gus needed more some time with him — he's been with Shawn since you left." She lifted her lips into a slight smile and looked at Henry. "You doing okay?"

"Fell asleep," he sighed, and ran his hand over his head before shoving both hands into his pockets. "How's Shawn?"

Maddie sighed and looked back toward the orange colors. "Strong," she said, "stronger than I thought he was." She paused tapped the lid of her coffee with her fingernail, and took a deep breath. "You did a good job, Henry." She looked at him.

Henry swallowed and met her gaze.

"But Shawn is never going to fit into that box—not the one you want him to." Maddie took a sip of her coffee and looked toward the doors to the ICU. "I held him back when he wanted to run, you challenged him when he wanted to play, and the world told him how he's supposed to behave," she chuckled and raised her eyebrows, "and no matter what, he sings to his own tune and dances to his own beat. We can either embrace and accept him for who he is, or we can continue to place our own expectations on him," she shrugged, "which will never get us anywhere."

"It was his freedom that put him here, Maddie."

Madeline shook her head and took another deep breath. "No... it wasn't. It was someone else who did that—don't blame Shawn for this, Henry." She met his eyes with a frown.

Henry clenched his jaw and nodded.

It wasn't what she wanted to see, but it was more than she expected.

Henry turned toward the elevator as the doors opened and Chief Vick, Lassiter and O'Hara stepped out. Henry frowned, put his hands on his hips, and said, "You're supposed to be in protective custody."

Karen nodded toward Madeline and then looked at Henry. "Nichols Hammaz died fourteen hours ago. He was on a flight to Chicago when he assaulted a passenger. By the time they got him restrained and the plane landed in Denver he was dead. An autopsy was performed just a couple of hours ago—they think the change in air pressure caused an aneurism, a complication due to the medication he was taking for his cancer.

"Hammaz was a former, Kommando Spezialkräfte, the US's equivalent to Delta Force—and he specialized in reconnaissance gathering and sniper and counter sniper operations." Karen took a deep breath. "Apparently, after he left the KSK, he contracted himself out—made quite a name for himself—Interpol believes he may be responsible for deaths in France, Ukraine, South Africa, as well as Finland and Spain—"

"And Shawn's the one who found him," Henry sighed and rubbed his head. "Shit." He breathed through his nose and looked toward Lassiter.

"Yeah," Karen said, "Shawn discovered who he was—in less than 28 hours." She smiled proudly. "They've been after this guy for ten years, Henry."

Henry met her eyes and took a deep breath.

Karen reached out for Henry's arm and grasped his elbow. "How is he?"

"Shawn's tough." Henry shrugged. "But he's in one hell of a fight."

Karen nodded, but looked toward Madeline who wouldn't meet her eyes. "Henry?"

Henry rubbed his chin and then took a seat on the chair behind him. He looked up and watched as Madeline excused herself from the room and went to check on Shawn. His knees felt weak, and his chest tight. "There may be some complications." He ran his hand over his head and looked up toward them.

Karen took a seat beside him and looked toward Lassiter and Juliet who looked just as shocked. "What complications?"

Henry cleared his throat and paused. He collected himself and said, "Shawn may not have been getting enough oxygen—doctors are concerned about brain damage."

Juliet sighed and took a seat across from them. "When will you know?"

Lassiter scratched the back of his neck and moved toward the window as the light of the day appeared

"The infection's so bad it's lowered his blood pressure—so they've got him on life support—they can't take him off it until his blood pressure rises—could be hours—could take days—they don't know—but we won't know for sure until he's conscious." With his elbows on his knees he buried his face in his hands.

Karen took a deep breath and rubbed the back of Henry's shoulder. "Can I see him?"

Henry nodded, and slowly stood. "Yeah." He looked toward Juliet and then toward Carlton.

Juliet nodded. "Thank you."

Carlton crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. "I'll see Spencer when he bounces in through the department's front doors looking for another case to annoy me on," he raised his eyebrows, "and not a damn minute sooner." He clenched his jaw and nodded toward Henry. "I'll wait here."

Henry pursed his lips to hide his approval and nodded back.

 **Chapter 15**

The human body is a phenomenal piece of machinery, but like all machines, when one issue arises, others soon follow. While the blood loss, shock, exhaustion, and dehydration had played a role, the infection is what pushed and kept Shawn down. The blood loss prevented necessary life-saving oxygen from moving throughout his body, which caused the infection to spread like wildfire. And, while Madeline and Henry took 12 hour shifts sitting with their son, Gus arrived every day after work and stayed while Henry and Madeline could meet with the doctor to talk about Shawn's progress.

It was slow.

It was five days before the infection was finally under control and slowly leaving his system. They removed the respirator, drain tubes, fitted him with a brace for his shoulder and bandaged his thigh with bandages before moving him out of ICU. They slowly reduced the pain medications and could do nothing more than wait for Shawn to wake and make his way back from the hell he'd been faced with.

It was slow, but unconsciousness was slowly replaced with sleep, and waking moments grew from mere seconds to minutes as the hours and days progressed. Shawn's awareness was questionable, he wasn't speaking, just offering a quick glance before lids closed and exhaustion claimed him again.

"Hey, goose," Madeline said. She lowered the railing on the left side of the bed she leaned over and rested her elbow to the right of Shawn's head and gently wiped his brow. "You going to stay with me this time?" She smiled when he raised his right hand and she clasped it in her own.

Shawn swallowed and winced, feeling the abuse to his throat. He felt the bed incline slightly and he continued to fight the drowsiness as the sedatives continued to ware off. "Mom?"

"Yeah," she smiled, and kissed his forehead. "I'm here." She shifted her position and took a seat on the edge of the bed. "Do you remember where you are?" she asked, "Do you remember what happened?" Her heart raced.

Would this be the moment? The moment that decided if a lack of oxygen played a role in the quality of life he would have.

Shawn frowned and blinked, as his eyes focused on the room.

"You're in the hospital, goose. The doctors moved you out of ICU a couple days ago." She ran her fingers through his hair and then rested her palm on his forehead. "You've been in and out for the past couple of days—do you remember?"

Shawn closed his eyes, and heard his mother sigh, he opened his eyes and looked around the room. Get well cards hung from the bulletin board across from the bed, flowers decorated the rolling table as well as the counter next to the window. He sighed and closed his eyes as he tried to pull at memories. For a moment, everything was a blur—faint images flashed through his memories: _a cabin; Karen and her family; Lassiter grumbling; Gus telling him he'd grab some food; Eastwood and the files—Hammatz_.

Shawn looked at his mother.

 _Henry falling behind his truck as the gunfire exploded._

"Oh God," Shawn said, and pulled his hand from his mother's grasp to cover his eyes. He caught his breath in his throat, gasped as the tears started rolling from his eyes down the sides of his face, and his chin quivered. _The footage from the security cameras hit him with images as clear as day. The SBPD parking lot had turned into a war zone, officers dove for cover, while civilians screamed and sought refuge._ Shawn remembered the bullets impacting the old Ford, the chief's sedan, and the black and whites parked in designated locations.

"Shawn?" Madeline said, slipping off the bed as Henry walked in with coffees. She grasped Shawn's wrist with her left hand and rubbed her right along the sling of his left arm.

"You're awake," Henry said as he entered the room. He set two coffees on the table at the end of the bed and moved toward Shawn. Henry looked at Madeline and frowned. "Hey, kid." He grasped Shawn's right ankle over the blankets and pressed his hand to Madeline's back. "Shawn?"

Shawn lowered his hand and looked at his father. No bullet wounds or bandages, not even a scratch was evident, just tired eyes and an expression filled with exhaustion as well as relief.

"Shawn?" Henry said, and furrowed his brow.

Shawn covered his eyes again and choked back a sob. Henry stepped past Madeline and placed his hand on Shawn's right shoulder and grasped his left hand, despite being hindered by the brace supporting his dislocated shoulder and bruised ribs.

"Hey, kid," Henry said, and tried to peek beneath Shawn's firmly placed palm over his eyes. Henry's heart raced as unknown questions ran through his mind.

Shawn shuddered and inhaled, hand still covering his eyes. "Thought you were dead." He shifted his right leg beneath the covers as anxiety increased.

Henry sighed, slipped his left arm beneath his son's shoulders, and pulled him forward into an embrace. "No," he said with a sigh, "I'm not dead." He clenched his jaw. "I'm not dead." He felt Shawn shift and grasp the front of his shirt. "I'm here, kid, I'm right here." Henry pressed his right cheek to the top of Shawn's head and held him. He could hear Maddie crying behind him, but he chose this moment to be a father, and he held Shawn while the tremors and sobs continued.

Time was a beast. One minute things were normal, and the next… events changed the outlook for parents, children, friends, and even enemies. Time could take as much as it gave, and it could be as cruel as the beating of an innocent. From start to finish the case had pushed and crushed the strongest of them, reminding them how brittle life could be. Despite the changes and shifts in destiny, they were lucky this time.

Madeline stepped behind Henry as he lay Shawn back against the bed and she rubbed Henry's back in slow circular motions. She had wiped away her tears, but mascara had left trails of black down her cheeks. Henry signed, grasped Shawn's wrist and took a seat next to the bed. Everything was quiet a moment, Henry turned and looked at Madeline as she moved to the other side of the bed. She grabbed a half-filled cup, bendy straw, and held it while Shawn sipped tentatively at the lukewarm water.

Shawn pulled his arm from his father's hand and pinched the bridge of his nose while he collected himself. He took a deep breath, lowered his hand and looked toward his mother who smiled and then at his father. "What happened?"

Henry took a seat on the chair next to the bed while Madeline walked across the room and moved the blinds to keep the sun out of Shawn's face. She busied herself, checked the water in the flowers, adjusted the cards, and then she signed, "I'm going to grab a snack, Shawn, would you like anything?"

Shawn shook his head, watched her force a smile, and then leave. He looked toward his father who still sat in the chair next to the bed.

Henry forced a smile and grasped Shawn's forearm. "You, ah," he paused, "gave us one hell of a scare, kid."

Shawn frowned, blinked a few times, and then winched when he moved his right leg. "What happened?"

Henry clenched his jaw and met Shawn's eyes. "What do you remember?"

Shawn took a deep breath and looked up toward the ceiling. He closed his eyes and replayed the images in his mind, he could hear the printer at the Psych office, the humming of the lights as he had worked, the refrigerator kick on an off during the long hours, the runners and walkers down the path by the beach, dogs barking in the distance, and the smells of barbecue as the afternoons had grown long. He remembered the information he had gleaned from the internet, the newspaper obituaries, articles, and headlines that were related to the case, and the moment he realized who the culprit was.

His heartbeat picked up, and he felt his father grasp his arm in reassurance as the monitor reflected the change. Shawn took another deep breath, and carefully lifted his left knee as muscles protested. He gasped and lowered his leg, realizing it would be some time before he would have full use of the limb. He remembered the pain, falling from his bike, and facing the man who had terrorized them.

"Chief's okay?"

Henry nodded. "Yeah, she's just fine—thanks to you and Buzz…"

"Buzz?" Shawn turned and looked at his dad. "I saw him go down."

"He's a few doors down—came by to see you earlier, but you were asleep." Henry released Shawn's arm and leaned back in his seat. He took a deep breath, scratched his scalp and then leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "Nichols Hammaz was German Special Forces," he looked up and met Shawn's eyes, "Interpol had been searching for him for 10 years—you found him in less than 48 hours."

Shawn swallowed and then scratched his chin. He winced, feeling the stubble at his jaw, and the weight of his arm as he lowered it to his chest.

"Hammaz was battling cancer, Interpol profilers believe his medications were causing him to be more aggressive with his hits—" Henry took a deep breath, crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his seat. He took a familiar and comfortable position for the first time since it had begun.

Shawn shook his head. "He wanted to get home to see his kids—he was transferring funds as soon as hits were done." He rubbed his face, feeling exhaustion once again take control. "Hammaz was running out of time." He lowered his arm back to his side and closed his eyes. "He knew what he was doing." He looked up toward the ceiling. "He said he wouldn't kill me because he hadn't been paid to." He looked at his dad. "He called Lassie."

Henry nodded, but remained quiet as Shawn rubbed his eyes, and adjusted to his situation. "You alright?"

Shawn nodded, but remained quiet.

"Hammaz died, complications of his treatment." Henry met Shawn's eyes.

"Who found me?" Shawn asked.

Henry swallowed, winced and pushed himself forward. He rested his elbows on his knees and focused on the linoleum tiles. He reached across the bed and grasped Shawn's arm and then looked up at him. "I was with Lassiter when he got the call—you were less than 10 minutes from town."

Shawn nodded.

"We almost lost you, kid." Henry forced a smile. "Don't do that again, okay."

Shawn nodded and closed his eyes. He didn't shake his father's hand away, but instead found comfort in the grip that was adjusted as Henry remembered the moments, and the painful hours that followed. Shawn took a deep breath and slowly succumbed to a restful sleep. Henry stood, stretched his back as the door to Shawn's room opened and Gus entered.

"Mr. Spencer," Gus said, and slipped his computer bag off his shoulder and onto the floor next to the chair. "How's he doing?"

Henry grasped Gus' arm above his elbow and smiled genuinely for the first time in days. "He's going to be fine, Gus." He looked toward the bed and gently slapped Gus' shoulder. "I'm going for a long walk—don't let him wake up alone."

Gus nodded and glanced toward Shawn. "He's going to be fine — like fine — like old Shawn fine?" he said, looking from Henry to Shawn. "No... complications?" he met Henry's gaze.

Henry shook his head. "Not unless he does something stupid in the next few days." He suddenly frowned and took a deep breath. "So keep an eye on him, while his mother and I go eat something that doesn't come from the hospital cafeteria."

Gus nodded and took a seat next to the bed. He flipped on the television, kicked his feet up onto the edge of the bed, and put the remote down when he found the cartoon network.

Henry scratched the back of his neck and tried to loosen the tight muscles between his head and back, took a deep breath, and felt the exhaustion of nine days of uncertainty hit his shoulders. He stepped out of the room and allowed the door to Shawn's room to close behind him. He looked down the hall to his right as nurses, visitors, and patients walked, visited, and went about their day. He looked to his left as Maddie adjusted her purse over her shoulder and nodded. She had refreshed her face with powder and washed the mascara from her cheeks.

She was as stunning as the day he had met her, and despite their differences, their time together had brought about more than he could have hoped. Henry smiled as she stepped close and realized he couldn't have survived the past few days alone—not with the chance of losing their son. He grasped her arm and gently rubbed her forearm.

"Better?" Henry asked, as Madeline stepped beside him.

She nodded and rolled her lips. "Yeah, you?"

Henry reached for her hand and grasped it. "I'm buying you dinner," before she could argue, he added, "Gus is with him."

"But—"

"He's fine, Maddie." Henry paused and looked at her. "He remembers everything, and with more clarity than we'll ever know." He lifted her chin with his fingers.

Madeline nodded, squeezed Henry's hand and walked with him toward the elevator. "You know he'll need to stay with you while he recuperates." She chuckled as the elevator opened and they both stepped inside.

Henry sighed and clenched his jaw. "I'll need a beer with dinner."

Madeline chuckled and rested her head on his left shoulder. "I'll buy."

The doors to the elevator closed.

 **End**

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